


I'll Be Running (Till The Love Runs Out)

by anaranjada



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Road Trips, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaranjada/pseuds/anaranjada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurel's done waiting--for answers, for trouble, for Frank. It's time for action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some changes made about an hour after posting, as usual.

She just sat for awhile after finding his empty closet, in her usual spot on his couch. Sat and thought and wondered, and if she cried a little, well, didn’t she have the right, after all that had happened? After what she’d fucking _started?_

Relief came first, dripping lukewarm from her eyes. He wasn’t dead; she’d read enough crime scene analyses to know that. No signs of struggle, everything gone. Well, “everything”-- just clothes, really, and luggage, and--she almost laughed--hair products. The gel, of course, and the fancy-ass shampoo he would have denied using, had anyone asked. The smell of it lingered in the bathroom where she had not found him. _Not dead. Not dead. Thank fucking Jesus, not dead._

Logic didn’t cover it, though; she felt his alive-ness bone-deep. She’d have brushed that kind of bullshit off, had she heard it from anyone else, from a client. Now, though...well. She knew. She knew, and the knowledge soothed her somewhat. 

The tears didn’t stop, though; when relief wore off, anger waited to take its place, painfully hot on her cheeks. Bastard. _Bastard._ He never had explained, had he, and now here she was, here to fucking...what, forgive him anyway? And he wasn’t even _here,_ hadn’t had the decency to-- 

Shit. 

Sadness, next. Gut-punching. Cold. It made her miss the anger; she knew what to _do_ with that, at least. This? She felt weak. Felt _stupid._ Felt like the little girl they’d all taken her for that first day, mooning after that fucking _asshole._

She missed him already, and hated herself for it. 

He’d left his phone on the bedside table. Wiped, of course. When she called him, her number appeared on the screen. No name. No picture. She checked his messages, too; nothing. The laptop on his desk was equally useless. Equally fucking _blank._

The liquor cabinet, though, was blessedly full. Laurel decided she was done searching for the night. 

*** 

She woke the next morning, still curled on Frank’s couch, whiskey bottle nestled precariously in the crook of her elbow. The sun beat at her eyelids, accusing, and she let it. Took it. Didn’t shield her eyes. Didn’t turn away. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Gone._

It would have been poetic, wouldn’t it, to stay like that? To wallow. To sink into the leather seat and dissolve, to wait for his unlikely return, a damsel in distress. That’s what got her, in the end; what made her sit up and set the bottle aside and move. She’d let him change her, sure--had become _Frank’s girl_ after all--but she was no damsel. She would go home, change her clothes, brush her scuzzy, boozy teeth, and go to work. Class after, too. Hell, she thought, she might even go to the library after that; finals were coming up, and dammit, she intended to pass them.

 _He’s fine,_ she thought, propelling herself upward, stumbling toward the liquor cabinet to replace the half-empty bottle. Pressed her free hand to her eyes, tried to rub away the throbbing pain behind them. He _doesn’t care; why should you? Fuck it. Fuck it. Let him run._

She ran it through her head like a mantra as she gathered her things, slung her purse over her shoulder, locked the door behind her. She turned the key over and over in her hand, after, and finally stuck it into her pocket before stalking away. 

She didn’t look back. She didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from OneRepublic's "Love Runs Out," which, itself, is from the show's soundtrack.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a little bit to the end of chapter 1 after posting it, so if you read it early, you might want to go back and re-read the end.

On the way into the office, she checked her voicemail. 1 message: Wes. “He’s dead,” he said. His voice was eerily calm, but Laurel could hear the tremor in it, over the sound of New York traffic. “Mahoney. He...right in front of me. Shot. I don’t know...I just walked off. I’m on my way back now. I don’t...just...call me when you get this, okay?” 

_Fuck._

The call had come in just after midnight. Laurel pressed redial, holding back a shudder, trying her damnedest to focus on the road. No answer. _Of course. Of fucking course._ She threw the phone onto the seat beside her, hard enough to break, and was almost disappointed when it didn’t. Speeding up was nowhere near as satisfying, but she did it anyway. 

She found the others gathered in the living room, eerily quiet. Michaela’s face was a grotesque mask of concealer and functionality. _Caleb,_ Laurel had to remind herself. _Dead, traitorous client. Traitorous_ boyfriend. _Shit._ She considered going to her, putting a hand on her shoulder, trying to help somehow. What would she say, though? _‘Been there, buddy. Sucks. Has the denial set in yet?’ No. Not today. Someone else’ll have to play mom today._

“Is Annalise here?” she asked, turning to Connor, who looked furthest from a breakdown for the moment. “I need to--” 

“Nah,” Connor said, almost casually. Laurel had been wrong; the anger was there as always, just under the surface, bubbling up on command. “She needs her beauty sleep. Hasn’t been down yet. Dead murderer? Dead _scapegoat?_ Whatever. You know. No big.” He crossed his arms behind his head, but Laurel could see him eyeing the pillow beside him, could see how hard he was working not to curl up around it. She sighed. 

“What about Bonnie?” 

“What about _Frank?”_ Michaela shot in. “Where’s _he?_ Or are you two still _bickering?”_

Annalise chose that moment to descend the stairs, Bonnie in tow. “Frank’s handling a family emergency out of state,” she said, voice coolly indifferent, “but we don’t need him. This is the victory lap. They have their man; we have immunity. Chins up. I’ve saved your sorry asses once again.” 

_Just like that,_ Laurel thought. _Handled._ Part of her wanted to applaud; most of her wanted to vomit. She caught Bonnie’s eye across the room, though, and felt a jolt. She saw something there, in Bonnie’s face. Pain. Understanding. _Sympathy._ It was only for a moment--a flash, really--and after a blink, her eyes were stony once more, mouth set in a hard line. Blank. Empty. Laurel wondered if she’d imagined it; if she was cracking already. 

She snapped out of it to find Annalise already retreating down the hallway, toward her office. She followed. “Annalise,” she said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the others, “I have to--” 

“Wes?” Annalise said, turning to face her, one eyebrow raised. “He called me. He’s alright. Alive, anyway. He’ll be back when he’s ready.” She made to turn, to open her door, but when Laurel didn’t move, she sighed. Lowered her voice and leaned in close. “Or is this about your _other_ boyfriend?” 

Laurel managed not to shrink back; squared her shoulders instead. Met Annalise’s eyes, hard and blinding as they were. “He’s gone,” she said. “Not...not to his family. He’s not--” 

“Don’t worry about Frank,” Annalise muttered. “Lord knows he’s not worried about any of us.” She turned for real, then, and shut her office door behind her. 

Laurel let out a sigh, straightened her sweater, and closed her eyes. Tried to steady her breathing, ground herself. Almost succeeded. After a beat, she was ready. 

_Put it away,_ she thought. And with that, she headed back into the fray.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added another scene onto the end of this chapter an hour or two after posting it, so if you read it early, you might want to read the end again. Sorry for continually doing this.

She left the office at six that evening, ignoring sharp glances from the others and not even bothering to look Bonnie’s way. It was still light out, and she turned her face up toward the sun, rolled the tension from her shoulders. Sighed. Her head was pounding, still, and her muscles were sore from a night on the couch, but...she’d made it. _I can do this,_ she thought. _He’ll come back, or he won’t, and it’s not my _fucking _problem._ __

Maybe she even believed that, for awhile. 

Wes didn’t answer when she knocked, so she just walked in. _They never learn, do they,_ she thought, _to lock their goddamn doors?_ She found him in bed, of course, face buried in his pillow. If he was crying, she could not tell; for a moment, she thought he was actually asleep. He stirred, though, when she scooted his desk chair out to sit. Sat up in bed. Faced her, face blank. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” he slurred, voice heavy with what smelled like cheap gin. 

“Visiting,” she said, kicking off her shoes and resting her feet on his mattress. “I called.” 

He stood, then, and headed for the desk drawer beside her left ankle. Pulled out a nearly empty bottle and took a swig before returning to his place on the bed. “When?” He said. His eyes were dark, and for a moment, he looked to her like a petulant child. 

“This morning,” she said. “I...I wasn’t checking my phone last night.” 

He barked out a laugh at that. Looked down to the bottle in his hand, then away, into the middle distance. “Well, I didn’t know who else to call, you know? Who else am I supposed to...trust? I thought I could…” 

An anger rose in Laurel, then. One that she couldn’t quite hold in. “Frank disappeared,” she said, her voice just too loud for the echoey room. “Yesterday. Nobody knows where he is.” 

Wes’s eyes darted to hers, then, sharp and hard. “When? What time?” 

“I don’t...know, exactly. Sometime after nine, I guess? I went to his place, after work, to....to see what was going on, and he was just...gone. Took everything with him. I asked Bonnie, but she doesn’t--” 

Wes was on his feet again, then, pacing across the room. He slammed the bottle down on the desk and loomed over her, eyes on fire. “Frank,” he said. His voice was as angry as she’d ever heard it. “Fucking _Frank._ I should’ve...you didn’t know, did you? What he was gonna--” 

Laurel frowned. _What?_ He must have seen the confusion on her face, and it made him madder. Another angry laugh, then: “You didn’t even consider it? When I told you? That he might’ve...that he might’ve been the one who…” 

It hit her, then, all at once, right in the chest. What he meant. What he had to mean. She lost her breath for a moment, but when it returned, it came out as a laugh. “Frank?” She asked. “You think Frank….what...drove to New York, got some sniper training, took out Mahoney?” 

“And after all this, you don’t think he’s capable?” Wes yelled. “After everything, after what you told me in Ohio, you don’t think he could? For Annalise? If she told him to?” He laughed too. “You’re in deep, aren’t you? God.” She saw tears in his eyes, then, just before he turned to return to his bed. “Go,” he murmured. “Go home. Tell Annalise I’ll...I don’t know. Be back...eventually.” 

“Wes,” Laurel said, standing, approaching the bed, “he didn’t...he didn’t. He’s...not a good guy. You’re right. And he’s done a lot of shit. But he didn’t _follow you to New York_ to shoot your...to shoot Mahoney. God.” 

Wes turned to her, eyes reddened, glassy, and mad as hell. “I believe that you believe that,” he said. “And that’s why I need you to leave now. Please.” 

Laurel looked at him for a long moment after that, looking for any sign that he didn’t mean it. That he wanted her there. That he didn’t actually think… _shit._ Finally, she stood, pulled the comforter up from the foot of the bed, and draped it over Wes’s prone form. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll call in the morning.” 

He thrashed the covers away, turned his back to her, and turned off his bedside lamp. Laurel made her way out in the dark.

*** 

She wasn’t sure where the hell she was going until she pulled into Frank’s apartment parking lot. She took his reserved spot. _He sure as hell doesn’t need it,_ she thought. Swiped angrily at the tears that had been falling since she’d left Wes’s place. _Stupid. Stupid._

Wes was right, of course; it was possible. Frank could have… _fuck._ He could have. She knew that. She wasn’t so naive anymore. _I don’t know him,_ she told herself, on the way up to his floor. _I never did. I can’t pretend. Not now. Not after..._

Fuck. 

His key was warm from her pocket; it burned in her palm. _Why am I here?_ she wondered, opening the door. _Go home. Leave. Put the key on his fucking desk and lock the door behind you._

Instead, she poured herself a drink. This time, though, she did not cry. Did not curl up on the couch. Did not crawl into the bed that probably fucking smelled like him and drink till she slept. Instead, she took a seat at his desk, opened the first drawer, and began to search. 

She decided, that night, that she would find him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I ended up adding a scene at the end of the last chapter--it fit better there than in the beginning of this one. Some of you probably didn't see that, though, if you read it soon after it was posted, so I'd recommend checking. Anyway, enjoy!

She did not let it consume her; promised herself, that first night, that she wouldn’t. If anything, her class attendance went up; she wouldn’t let herself go to his place if she skipped, and after a few days, she had to admit that it was keeping her sane. Fucked up as it was, it kept her going. Let her ignore the increasingly suspicious glances she got at the office, the way Wes still wouldn’t take her calls. Gave her a fucking _task._ A goal to hold in mind. 

His desk alone took two nights; every drawer was stuffed to the brim with old case files, tax documents, paper scraps of all sorts. He kept fucking _receipts,_ for god’s sakes, going back at least five years. It was organized chaos, she’d give him that, but that didn’t get her far, did it? She kept on, though. She had to. _That’s how he’d hide something. Like a teenage boy hiding porn, he’d put it in a file labeled ‘business expenses.’_

By the end of the second night, she had what she thought was a decent grasp of his note-taking system, a series of cryptic abbreviations and number-strings that, to the untrained eye, could easily have passed for default passwords. She found fits and starts of it written in margins and on receipt-backs, indicating meeting locations, underworld contacts, and-- _aha_ \--two different area chop-shops. 

It was heartening, at first, to see how much he actually wrote down, how long his paper trail was, once you went to the trouble of decoding it. As the hours dragged on, though, and the piles dwindled, Laurel’s heart sank. This, it seemed--this sudden disappearance--was different, somehow, from all his other shady bullshit. There were no notes on this. No indication of out-of-town boltholes. No names or addresses unaccounted for by some past job or other. Nothing outside the metro area at all. 

From there, she moved on to the bedroom closet, which was stacked knee-high with heavy file boxes. Seemed he occasionally emptied the desk, but not into the trash. She laughed aloud then; _Annalise taught him_ damn _well._ Those files went more quickly--she knew what she was doing by then--but it was still a week before she was _done_ done, and all she gained, really, was a complete linguistic history of Frank’s personal note-scrawl. 

Finally, on the 11th day, post-disappearance, she was left gasping with nothing left to do. Piles of papers lay strewn across the floor, nominally sorted, their old containers gutted, empty, tossed aside. The liquor cabinet was empty too, by then, and as she looked upon the chaos before her, Laurel realized she was crying again. It had been several days; she’d been doing so well. This, though--coming out with nothing, after all--was… _shit._ She stood shakily from the center of the storm and made her way into Frank’s room. Collapsed onto his carefully-made bed and tore the covers from formation. Made herself a nest and let herself fall apart. 

For the first time since that first night, she felt it. Felt the words deep as she repeated them to herself: _he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone, and there’s not shit you can do about it._

After awhile, she rose again from the bed and went to the dresser, began tearing the clothes from it, sorting them as she had the papers. _If this is it,_ she told herself, _may as well get my own shit back, whatever’s left of it here. No use wasting--_

She stopped halfway through her rationalization, though, a pile of worn-out flannel shirts in her lap, face stained with tears, and just let it happen. Let herself bury her face in the goddamn shirts and sob.


	5. Chapter 5

Around 4 AM the next morning, she rose, dressed herself in the remnants of her Frank’s-place wardrobe, and drove back to Annalise’s house. She cut the headlights a block away, and closed the car door quietly behind her. The front door was predictably unlocked, and Laurel knew just how to turn the knob without making a sound. 

It had come to her all at once upon waking; she’d have hit herself, had she not been so hung over. She’d scoured his apartment, but not his home; not the place where he spent twenty goddamn hours a day. Where he was too busy with other people’s shit to cover his own tracks, sometimes. Where he might have actually slipped up, left something behind. 

If his desk back at the apartment was a mess, this one was ten times worse. Files were piled six inches thick across most of its surface, for one, and the drawers that weren’t locked were stuffed full. Laurel sighed. Her sifting abilities had improved, but Annalise would be up soon, _too_ soon, and she was still hung over, and-- 

“Laurel.” Laurel jumped. The voice came from behind her, from the hallway. Bonnie. Laurel turned to face her--no choice, really--and got a clearer view of what she’d seen on the other woman’s face a week before. Disdain, yes, and disgust--she’d read them enough times on the woman’s face to pick them out instantly--but a tired pity, too, and a kindness in the corners of her eyes. 

“I--I think I left some files, here, and--” 

_“Laurel.”_ Forceful, this time, and with a definite air of condescension. “Don’t. Sit.” 

Laurel sat in Frank’s chair, behind the desk; Bonnie pulled a loose one from the living room circle and sat across from her. Stared her down. 

“I’m...I really was just--” 

“Cut the shit, Laurel. I know why you’re here. And I get it. I do. But Frank had his reasons for leaving, and we both know that if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t. Not by Annalise, and…” her voice softened, “not by you.” 

Laurel had barely noticed her own headache before, but now it thrummed harshly at her temples, almost drowning Bonnie out. The room swam a bit around her, went fuzzy; it took her a moment to realize she was crying. Again. _Fuck._ “Look, I...I’m just tired. I’ll...I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll see you in...a few hours. I--” 

Bonnie let Laurel stand, let her stumble toward the door. Did not rise from her own chair, but did not look at all surprised when, halfway out of the room, Laurel stopped, sighed, and turned back to face her. Bonnie smiled, then, sadly. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” 

Laurel had not gotten that far, yet, but she shook her head on instinct, and knew she was right. “I...I’ve been looking, at his place, and...there’s nothing. He has so much...fucking _bullshit,_ so many papers, but he...he left _nothing_ behind, somehow. How can he just--just up and--” 

Bonnie approached her, then, and took her arm. Laurel flinched. She was fairly certain she’d never seen Bonnie touch someone kindly before. She’d have expected her hand to be cold, like her voice, like her face, but it was warm on Laurel’s arm, and soft. Bonnie moved back a moment later, removing her hand awkwardly, but her eyes stayed on Laurel’s. 

“You know,” she said. “Everything. As much as I do, anyway, and,” she chuckled, “I know a lot. He’s told you. All the _shit_ he’s done. Every twisted thing. You know all of that. But you still want to find him. Why?” 

Bonnie’s voice hardened again as she went; by the end, it was once more familiar, the voice Laurel heard day in and day out. Colder, even. Harder. Laurel stood up straight and hoped her own voice wouldn’t waver. 

“Because...because I love him. Anyway. Even though...I’m fucking pissed at him, but now he’s gone, and...and I do love him. And if he’s not coming back on his own, I need to--” her voice broke, then. She really was so _fucking_ tired, she’d barely slept, and here she was breaking down in front of fucking _Bonnie,_ shit… 

“He’s in Illinois,” Bonnie said. “Just outside Chicago. Some shitty motel. He’ll keep moving, though. Has been, all week.” 

Laurel blinked up at her, then, uncomprehending. “He’s...you know where he is? You know...you said he--” 

“I said Annalise wouldn’t find him, and that you wouldn’t, but I…” she sighed. “There are people out there--people worse than us--who want Frank dead. I wasn’t going to let him drop off the map. I bugged him.” 

Laurel barked out a laugh, too loud for the silent room; stifled it when Bonnie shot her a glare and glanced up the staircase. She lowered her voice before pressing on. “You microchipped Frank?” 

Bonnie cracked a smile too, then; the sun was rising out the window, and Laurel could tell from her face that she had not slept, either. _Delirium,_ she thought. _It might not even be true. We’re both hysterical, and--_

Bonnie gestured toward her own desk, indicated for Laurel to follow her. She unlocked the top drawer and pulled out a small GPS device. A light flashed dim on a satellite map of the U.S., right above what Laurel assumed was Chicago. “Inside his watch,” she said. “It was his dad’s; he never takes it off.” 

Laurel stared, agape, for a moment, then let a smile creep back onto her face. “You...you knew he was going to…?” 

Bonnie smiled, too, grimly, but with some satisfaction, too. “I put it in when I found out...when he told you. About Lila. About that night. I knew something would happen. And it did. And now…” she sighed. “I’m sending you after him.” 

Laurel took the proffered device, held it awkwardly before her, not sure what to do with it. “You...you want me to follow him? To...what...drive out to Chicago and…?” 

“That’s what you were going to do, isn’t it? If you found anything?” Bonnie sat down behind her desk, then, and flipped on her reading lamp. Her eyes were expectant, scanning Laurel’s face for hesitation. Judging. 

Laurel schooled her features. “...Yeah,” she said. “I was, but...if there are people after him, like you said, I don’t want to...to lead them to him, or--” 

The disdain returned to Bonnie’s face. “You’re a smart girl, Laurel, and a rich one. Figure something out.” When Laurel didn’t respond, she carried on, more softly. “Soon, Annalise is going to calm down, and she’ll want him back safe. It’ll help to have someone with him until then. To have _you_ with him.” 

Laurel crossed her arms, then; couldn’t help pushing back, just a little. “You weren’t going to tell me,” she said. “This...you were going to let me leave without knowing. Why do you care, suddenly, that he _‘has’_ someone?” Her voice rose almost dangerously, but she checked it in time, lowered it again before continuing. “Why do you… _care?”_

Bonnie’s eyes looked almost wet in the dim light; she lowered her head, though, before Laurel could see anything more. “He’s my family,” she said. “And I love him. And I needed to know that I could trust you. That you wouldn’t...abandon him.” 

Laurel rounded Bonnie’s desk, then, and crouched beside her. She could see her face, now, contorted and definitely tear-tracked. Bonnie flinched, but did not move away when Laurel grasped her shoulder. 

“I won’t,” Laurel whispered. “I’ll find him. And...and I’ll bring him back.” She rubbed Bonnie’s shoulder lightly, comfortingly. Bizarre as the scenario was, she felt...protective of Bonnie, all of a sudden. She seemed so small. “...Thank you.” 

Bonnie looked up at last, eyes bright. “Annalise will be up soon,” she said. “Go home, get changed. Be here at 8.” 

Laurel must have looked confused; Bonnie shook her head. “You’re not going tonight,” she said. When Laurel went to protest, she held up her hand. “Wait till the weekend; Annalise will get suspicious if you go before then. You have finals, anyway, and trust me, Annalise does not need _any_ of you in her class again next fall.” She said it coldly, but Laurel saw a hint of a smile on her face. She nodded. 

“Thank you,” she said, standing. “Again. For...for everything.” 

“Go. Hurry.” 

Laurel did.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few days passed in a blur. Annalise, having shaken off her latest near-prison experience, got their client off handily, despite said client’s best efforts to hang herself by her own bitchiness. The whole gang was faced with the horrific reality of the latest intra-office hook-up, but were scrupulously careful not to reveal as much to either involved party, for fear that Michaela would murder them...or, worse, that Asher would feel obliged to provide details. Somehow, nobody failed a final. A quick hack into the registrar’s system revealed that this included Wes, who had nonetheless not returned to the office. 

Laurel did not care. Laurel was on her way out. Over the course of her last week in Philly, she extracted $8,000 in cash, bit by bit and from six different accounts so as not to arouse suspicion in the unlikely event that her father started giving a shit. $6,000 went to buying the world’s shittiest sedan; the other $2,000, she figured, would keep her in road food and hotel rooms for as long as it could possibly take her to find him. 

Unless...well. 

Finally, on the last day of the semester, she informed the others that she’d be spending the summer backpacking across the country. Annalise gave her a long look at that, but finally let it slide with a nod. “Let me know if you change your mind,” she said, averting her eyes. “I still have strings left to pull all over this city, and there are probably a few internships left available.” Laurel nodded. 

“Thank you,” she said, “but...not this year.” 

She left at dawn the Saturday after her last exam, car packed full of car snacks, about half her wardrobe, and a handle of vodka. (She was, after all, easily within cardable range, and didn’t want to risk it.) 

Laurel had never really traveled by car before; it was calming, in a way, she settled in quickly, let the humming of the engine lull her. She did not stop for lunch--the sandwiches she’d packed suited her fine--and only twice for gas, in Ohio and again in Indiana. During the second stop, she checked the tracker. During the preceding week, Frank had gone from Chicago to St. Louis to somewhere in Western Kansas, but had, it seemed, finally managed to settle. _Thank fuck,_ Laurel thought, letting her eyes slip closed. She’d estimated that it would take her a day and a half to reach him, but had feared he’d keep moving and drag the whole thing on longer. Kansas, _I can do,_ she thought. _Two days, two and a half if I lag. I can do it._

She finally stopped at dusk, 50 miles or so outside Indianapolis. She picked a no-name motel--ground floor, outdoor access, but she doubted they’d ask for ID, and anyway, nothing had gone wrong yet. She had a dinner at the diner across the parking lot, then returned to her room, poured three fingers of vodka into one of the foggy glasses from the bathroom counter, and collapsed into the dusty recliner opposite the bed. She made no move to turn on the TV. Instead, she pulled the tracker once more from her backpack. Stared at the flashing dot on the screen. 

Watched it till she fell asleep. 

*** 

She was awoken by sunlight sifting through half-closed curtains. Jolted up; she’d planned to leave early again, but it was much too bright for that, now. She checked the clock: 9:30. _Twelve hours,_ she realized, counting back to the last hour she remembered from the night before. _Twelve fucking hours._

She gathered her things quickly and headed out once more. 

The drive went more quickly that day; she sped most of the way, glancing occasionally at the tracker beside her. Frank’s dot had not moved an inch since the night before, and the closer she got, the more certain she was that this would be the day. 

The GPS map came into focus as she got close, not that there was much to see: Frank was, it seemed, in Alexis, Kansas, just off of the single marked road. 

She realized, then, maybe 20 miles out, that she was not ready. 

With all that was going on--the search, the prep, the journey--she hadn’t had time to think about what was coming. What she was about to walk into. The fucking conversations she was about to have, sober and in person and let’s face it, probably fucking crying. There was excitement there, too, though; of course there was. She would see him again, away from Annalise, away from Bonnie, away, in some way, from the specter of Lila. Maybe in some sad, strange hotel room, he would be able to tell her the truth. 

When her pulse quickened, she wasn’t quite sure what to blame. 

Whatever it was, she pressed through it. Found a hard-rock station and played it full-blast. Sang along a little, till she heard the tremor in her own voice. _Just get it done,_ she told herself. Gripped the steering wheel just that much tighter. Kept her eyes on the road. 

She found her exit, finally, and took it. She’d been picturing something quaint, picturesque, even; this was not that. The “town” was comprised of two gas stations a cluster of fast-food restaurants, and one hotel: a cinderblock horror painted baby blue, with a sign out front advertising $100 weekly rates and clean rooms with TVs. She found herself laughing, suddenly, uncontrollably. She pictured him there, fucking three-piece suit getting lice from his assigned “clean” bed, watching bumfuck-nowhere local news, and, well, it was funny, wasn’t it? Despite everything? 

She pulled into the parking lot, put her car in park...and sat. Waiting, she supposed, for some last-ditch courage, some rush of confidence. She gave up, though, after a minute or so; her legs ached to walk, and if two hours of near-silent driving is good for anything, it’s making a person want to _do_ something, dammit, brave or not. She took one last deep breath, stuck the tracker into her purse, and headed in. 

A scrawny, balding man sat behind the front desk, staring intently at a sudoku puzzle and nibbling on the end of a golf-score pencil. He looked up when she entered, set the pencil aside, and leaned back in his seat, not even trying to hide his wandering eyes. 

“What can I do for you, hon?” he asked. 

Laurel had thought about this moment, perhaps too much; had planned at least four different lies to tell. A split second to ponder, and she eased a hint of angry desperation into her eyes. Let her shoulders sag as she approached. Came maybe a bit too close before speaking. 

“I think my hubby’s here,” she said. “Tall guy, over-dressed, hair all--” she gestured mockingly-- _“done?_ I think he mighta got a room here, and I need to talk to him.” 

She saw in the man’s face that she’d been right. He was here. The man didn’t speak right away, though, and made no move to pull anything up on the aging monitor before him. His eyes roved from Laurel’s eyes to her chest and back; Laurel shifted her expression to accommodate something suitably pitiable, vulnerable. 

“Look,” she said, finally, “we got a kid--he’s six--and I just found out there’s another one comin’, and that bastard hasn’t paid us a cent in child support since he left. I just wanna talk to him, alright? Think you can help me out?” 

The man’s eyes went dimmer, then. “Can’t help you, hon,” he said, reclaiming his pencil and scribbling a bit on the margins of his puzzle without looking away. “Ain’t seen nobody like that, and even if I had, there’s, you know, confidentiality. Sorry.” 

Laurel leaned all the way in. _“Please,”_ she said. “I’m not here to do nothin’ stupid, alright? Just talk. Here.” She unzipped her purse and withdrew her wallet. “I got fifty bucks. ‘S all I can spare, but...I need to see him.” 

Anger, then, in the man’s beady little eyes. “Like I said,” he said, “Nothin’ I can do.” 

A door behind the counter opened, then, and a short, stout woman emerged. “What’s goin’ on?” she asked. “He givin’ you trouble, hon?” 

Laurel sighed. Added a double dose of desperation to her face. Willed herself to cry. “I just...my bastard husband’s here, I think, and he...he walked out on us, you know, when he found out I was…” she gestured to her abdomen. “I just wanna talk to him, you know? I gotta…” she sniffled. “I’m sorry. It’s not your...problem, I just...I’m sorry.” 

When Laurel raised her eyes, she found the woman shooting daggers at the man. “Gary, you’re so full of shit,” she said. She looked back to Laurel, then. “Doesn’t pay his own child support, this one, do you, Gary?” Her eyes were soft when they met Laurel’s. “What’s his name, hon?” 

Laurel grinned broadly, sniffled again. “Thank you,” she said, “but...he probably didn’t use his real name. Never does, when he...well. He’s got brown hair, all slicked back, and a beard, and he always wears these...ridiculous suits, like he’s _somebody,_ you know?” She scoffed a little, for good measure. 

The woman scoffed back. “Men,” she said. “Yeah, he was here, but he checked out last night. I’m sorry.”


	7. Chapter 7

Laurel stood in the center of the dingy little room for a long time, not moving, just...looking. Everything was in its place, covers tucked in neat, blinds drawn. She didn’t have to look under the bed, in the dresser drawers, in the closet to know she wouldn’t find anything. 

She did anyway, though, after a few moments of pitiful stagnation and another check of the damn tracker, which mocked her still with its unmoving dot. She tore the damn room apart, silently apologizing to the front-desk woman, to the maid, but failing, deep down, to give a damn. 

Finally, she sat down on the stripped-bare bed, pulled out her phone, and dialed a number she’d been hoping not to need. 

Bonnie answered after one ring. “Laurel,” she said. There was a note of warning in her voice, but Laurel could hear the apprehension, the excitement underneath. “What’s going on?” 

“He’s not here,” Laurel said. She was out of breath by then, and her voice was oddly hoarse; she put it down to the dust she could practically see floating around the room. “He...the tracker still says he is, but he’s…” 

Laurel could hear Bonnie’s sigh through the phone, short and oh so tired. “Behind the painting,” Bonnie said. “If it’s not taped there, remove the backing. I’m hanging up now; don’t call back.” 

Laurel dropped the phone to the bed beside her and looked up at the wall behind her. There was, indeed, a painting, a faux-impressionist landscape, the same one hanging in probably every room in every shitty hotel in the country. She stood, removed her shoes, and turned to kneel on the bed. The painting wasn’t nailed down or anything--no need, she couldn’t help but think--and was easy enough to remove. There was nothing on the backing itself, so Laurel set to work removing it. 

Bonnie was right; a tiny metallic pad fell out onto the bed between Laurel’s knees...along with a folded piece of hotel stationery. 

Laurel turned the note over and over in her hands, running her fingertips over the edges, sharpening the folds with her nails. Almost didn’t want to open it. _If he had shit to say,_ she thought, _he could have fucking said it. Could have fucking…_

She opened it, though; of course she did. Three lines: 

B- 

Don’t. 

-F. 

_Of course,_ Laurel thought, standing again, crossing toward the door. _Of course he’d think...shit. What the fuck did you expect? Declarations of fucking love, hidden where you couldn’t even find them on your own? What did you fucking--_

Dust hurts when you rub it into your eyes. Makes tears come faster. Makes them sting. 

Still, she re-folded the note carefully; tucked it, along with the tracker, into her bag. Zipped them in tight before chucking the bag across the room, narrowly missing a lamp. 

_That’s it,_ she thought. The thought came almost gently, swimming into her consciousness without a ripple left behind. _Really. Truly. End of. Game over._ The tears were nice, really, while they lasted; she missed them when they stopped. _Fresh out,_ she figured, then. It pissed her off, though, it really did, because what the _hell_ else was there to do in a moment like that? _Leave? Already? Go_ back, _after all the_ fucking… 

Something caught her eye, then, on the desk beside the bed. A pad of paper, pen laid across the top. First page torn off hastily, leaving a ragged corner behind. 

She stood, reclaimed her bag, and removed the note. She didn’t quite know why, yet, but her heart beat faster as she held it to the pad. _No match,_ she realized. It ran through her mind, over and over, as though it meant something, as though-- 

_Another. Another note. Somewhere. Something else. Something written--_

She sat down at the desk, turned on the lamp, and… 

_Oh._

He’d always had a heavy hand, almost tearing the paper when he wrote. It had worried her before sometimes, watching him at the office; worried her more than it should have, more than she’d wanted it to. _Stress,_ she’d caught herself thinking, _plus his diet, it’s a recipe for disaster._ Now, though… 

The indents were visible, but not quite legible. She could make out a few letters--one in five, maybe--but no more. Not enough, not _enough_ to-- 

_Rubbings._ Her fifth-grade class had gone to an old cemetery, once, armed with crayons and tracing paper, and spent hours teasing out the headstones’ messages. It had creeped some of the kids out, but Laurel had loved it, had drawn out maybe a hundred _Rest In Peace_ s and _You Will Be Missed_ s. She’d gotten good at it; probably still had some of those morbid etchings in her room back in Florida. Maybe, _maybe…_

She rifled through her purse, then, and found a snub-nosed pencil. She tore a page from the middle of the pad, laid it on top, and… _shit._ She knew before she started that it was too thick, that it wouldn’t pick up a damn thing. 

But… 

She opened the drawer, then, and-- _yes_ \--withdrew a dusty Bible. She hesitated only a moment before tearing out the near-transparent title page and laying it over the pad. When she began to trace--gently, gently--the letters came into focus. Became...well, not _words,_ but shorthand. Frank's personal code. 

All those hours, all those fucking _days_ at his place, digging through his desk...she’d been so mad, so fucking _pissed_ when it had come to naught, but now? _Jesus,_ she… 

She had it. An address. An address he’d written and taken _with_ him and had no idea she knew. An address he might not fucking leave. Somewhere to find him, after all. She pulled out her phone, typed it in, and-- 

15 miles away. He was 15 goddamn miles away. Laurel grabbed her bag and the notepad-- _just in case_ \--and made for the exit.


	8. Chapter 8

She ran into the front-desk woman on her way out--literally. 

“Sorry,” she stammered. After a beat, she held out the key. “Here, I...I found what I need. Thank you, again. The room is a bit of a mess now, though, so…” She fumbled around in her purse again, withdrew the fifty bucks she’d offered Gary earlier. “Here.” 

The woman shook her head, grinned. “Nah,” she said. “My pleasure. Glad you found what you were lookin’ for.” 

Laurel shook her head in turn. “For the cleaning woman, then. For the extra work I made for her. Please?” 

The woman hesitated for a moment, but took the bills, still smiling. “Sure, hon,” she said. “Now, go get that bastard. For me.” 

Laurel smiled, murmured her thanks once more, then hurried down the stairs and out the door, not sparing a glance for Gary. 

The drive did not take long; Laurel went eighty miles an hour down the freeway, and only slowed to forty when she turned onto a wooded gravel path, per her phone’s instructions. _No time,_ she thought, ignoring the grating sound of rocks against metal. Illogical, she knew, but _fuck it. No time, no time, no--_

She came, finally, to a tired-looking ranch house, situated on a flat patch of mostly dirt. A car even worse for wear than hers sat out front; Laurel parked her own beside it, and headed for the door. She paid no mind to the boarded front window, the “no solicitors” sign, or the doorbell hanging from one frayed wire, as though it had been torn forcibly from the wall. Her three knocks were confident. 

The door swung open just as she considered knocking again, revealing a tall, broad man in a wifebeater. He did not look surprised to see her, really, but somehow managed to look personally offended at her presence, nonetheless. “What do you want?” he asked. It was barely a question. 

“Frank,” Laurel said. “Is he here?” 

He was quicker than he looked; within three seconds, he had her in a solid hold, and was pulling her backward into the house. She fought, of course she did; fought hard. She caught sight of a knife glinting on his belt--almost got a hold of it, almost--but he beat her there and brought it to her neck. She stopped fighting, then, and when he said “walk,” she walked. 

Her eyes didn’t even get a chance to adjust to the dim light of the house before they emerged again, through the back door. She spotted a smaller building--barely more than a shed, really--a hundred feet away or so. _How cliche,_ she couldn’t help but think. She began kicking again, then. _If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die fighting. I’m gonna--_

The man nudged the shed door open with one foot, barely breaking stride, and...there was Frank, sitting on a battered couch, nose in a dog-eared paperback. His hair was lank and ungelled, his beard unkempt. His eyes looked tired when he raised them to the door, but when he saw her--saw _them_ \--he was on his feet in half a second, eyes flicking between Laurel and her captor. 

“The fuck?” he said. “Joe, what the--” 

“Bitch came, knocked on my door, cool as ice, lookin’ for you,” the man said. Laurel could feel the heat of his breath against her hair, could smell the beer on it. “Figured you’d wanna do the honors.” 

Frank’s eyes were steely, then. “Let her go,” he said. His voice was low, but the threat it carried--the violence behind it--was undeniable. Laurel could see his hands clenched at his sides, could see the tension in his forehead. Could almost imagine what he might look like, killing someone. 

Joe dropped her, then, and she stumbled away from him, toward Frank, but not to him. He did not approach her, either--barely took his eyes off of Joe--so she stood between them, monkey in the middle, watching them like a tennis match and waiting for her pulse to slow. 

The dark glee on Joe’s face faded slowly into confusion. “What?” he said. “Who is she?” 

“She’s...my girlfriend,” Frank said. Under different circumstances, Laurel might have laughed at the bulky uncertainty of the word in his mouth, the way it didn’t cover half their shit but would have to fucking do, at least for Joe’s purposes. Frank’s eyes met hers, then, just for a moment, tense and mad and lost and yearning, and _god,_ she’d missed him. She couldn’t help but relax a bit, knife-wielding maniac be damned. 

Said maniac looked embarrassed by then, and, Laurel thought, maybe a little bit scared. “Shit,” he said. “I didn’t...fuck.” He tucked his knife back into his belt, then, and scratched the back of his head, refusing to meet Frank’s eyes. “You said someone might be comin’ for you, and hell, I don’t...discriminate. All sorts’a people are dangerous now, you know? Even pretty little--” 

Frank sighed, gave Joe a look he usually reserved for Asher. “Jesus,” he said, “just...go, would you?” 

Joe went. 

And there they were.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to put this here earlier, but many thanks to Becca (BBR on here) for all her help making sure this chapter didn't suck! You guys should go read her fic "Salvation" too, because I know all the cool shit that's coming and it'll be a wild ride.

For a few seconds, they both just stared. Laurel’s eyes darted from Frank’s face to his ratty T-shirt and jeans to the drab walls of his makeshift bedroom; Frank’s remained steady on her face. Finally, he sighed. “Laurel,” he said. 

It was as though she’d been waiting for her cue. She strode toward him, raised her hand, and slapped him hard across the face. “What the _hell,_ Frank?” she said. She’d felt the words angry in her chest, she really had, but the edges dissolved in her throat, and they came out with a sick little gurgle, a hitch she knew signaled tears on the way. “Why the _fuck_ did you--” 

He did not reach for her. Did not try to stop her other arm from coming up and beating lamely at his chest. Did not avert his eyes from her breaking face. Just kept looking, blinking faster, faster, banishing his own budding tears. Raised his chin; tried and failed to defy gravity. His tears fell, then, and finally, Laurel stilled. Let her hand slide down Frank’s chest and back to her side. 

“Why?” The anger came through clear, this time, but it was not a victory. Frank’s wince, slight as it was, hit her hard, and her own tears bubbled up once more. 

He reached out, then, tentatively, as though to cup her face in his hand, though he still did not quite make contact. “Laurel,” he said. Nothing more. She looked up, then down again, at her own feet. 

“I...I went to your place,” she said, “After...after everything, and I thought...fuck, Frank, I thought you…” 

She broke down, then, entirely, and finally, finally, he drew her to him, enveloped her in his arms. She felt the adrenaline seep from her system, leave her limp and cold and just so fucking tired. She clung to him, hung on embarrassingly tight, and he did not let go. She could feel his nose in her hair; thought maybe, just maybe, she felt tears there, too. Neither spoke. Neither move. 

Finally, she pulled away, wiped her tears away, and huffed out an almost-laugh. “Jesus,” she said. “What _is_ this place?” 

Frank looked up, away, almost smiling, too. “Joe’s a...friend of a friend...of a friend,” he said. “When I figured out I’d been made, I figured,” he shrugged, “go where no one’s lookin’.” 

Laurel made a face, then, aiming for incredulity but probably landing closer to hysteria. Took a half-step back. “And...what? Just stay gone? Live _here?”_

Frank sighed. “I don’t know, Laurel. I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to plan. I had to--” 

“Had to what?” Laurel said. Her voice rose, and she folder her arms across her chest, defenses raised once more. “Had to fucking… _disappear?”_

Frank refused to meet her eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah I did. If I’d told anyone, they’d…” 

Laurel laughed aloud. Threw her arms out wide, gesturing to herself. “What?” she said. “Follow you? Track you down? Find you?” 

He looked up, then, eyes bright with...Laurel wasn’t sure what. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to...shit. Laurel, you shouldn’t _be_ here. You--” 

Laurel approached him again, then. “Do you wish I weren’t?” she asked. “Here? Do you wish I hadn’t…?” Her voice was softer than she’d expected, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it. She wanted to know, needed to-- 

Another sigh. “No,” he said. “No. I’m...Jesus, Laurel, I--” 

She kissed him, then. Hard. He held off reciprocating for a moment-- _waiting for the fallout,_ she thought, _waiting for me to stop, to hit him again, and he fucking deserves it, but…_ when she didn’t, when she twined her arms around his neck and held on tight, he gave in. Held her to him again. 

She backed them up slowly, then, until his legs hit the worn out cushions and buckled beneath him. She straddled him, lips never leaving his. Finally, he did pull away. “Nah,” he said. “Not now. Not until...Laurel, we need to… _Laurel…”_

She sighed, pulled away and settled beside him on the couch. “Okay,” she said. “Yeah. You’re right, I...we’ll talk. First. But...not now, okay? I’m so… _fucking_ tired, and…” 

Frank looked at her, then, really looked at her, and she could see him seeing it: the exhaustion, the frustration, the marks left behind by weeks of sleepless nights. His face softened, slackened, and he reached for her face, brushed away the tears that had just begun to fall. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. C’mere.” 

They settled themselves horizontally on the couch, arms around each, legs mingling atop the far armrest. It should have been awkward, it really should have, but...hell, of course it wasn’t. Laurel breathed in the scent of his shirt, let her breath out in a laugh. “You look like a mountain man,” she said. “Is there a withdrawal period from hair gel, or…?” 

He snorted, nudged her leg with his and tightened his arms around her. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk,” he said. “Get some sleep; I’ll let you pretty me up in the morning.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I ended up doing some fairly extensive edits to this about an hour after writing this. To my early readers: my apologies. If it helps, I think it's better now.

She woke just before dawn, wedged not entirely comfortably against the couch-back, caged in by Frank’s solidly unconscious form. She panicked for a moment-- _no room, can’t move, can’t breathe, where_ \--before it all flooded back: where she was, how she got there...who she was with. 

She let out a sigh, then. Relief, this time, for the first time in far too long. Here he was: slack-jawed, snoring and decidedly hairier than usual, but alive and unharmed and--she nudged his shoulder gently, aimed a stream of morning breath at his nose--very asleep. 

She’d have liked to stay like that, really, but her body cried out for coffee. It took some doing, but a few minutes and at least one disgruntled snore later, she had extricated herself, located the shoes she must have kicked off at some point the night before, and made herself at least nominally presentable, at least by backwoods standards. 

She glanced back at Frank from the doorway, curled in on himself against the back of the couch, and smiled. Reconsidered leaving after all, even for coffee, until the pounding in her temples drove her out the door, into her car, and five miles down the road to a run-down Dunkin Donuts. 

When she returned ten minutes later, two large coffees in hand, she found the room empty and half-tossed. _Fuck._ She set the drinks down and stalked across the small space, peered behind the couch and into the still-dark corners, but hell, there wasn’t much to search, and he was gone, _again,_ and-- 

“Laurel.” His voice came from behind her, from the doorway, and she wheeled around to find him wild-eyed and out of breath. “Where’d you...I thought you…” 

Laurel half-laughed, letting her gaze drop to the floor and rocking back on her heels. “Coffee,” she said. “I should have...shit, I didn’t think, I--” 

He huffed out a breath, then, attempted a smile, but she could hear the tension left in his throat, the panic she was sure he’d try and deny. “‘S okay,” he said. “Just...wake a guy up next time, alright?” 

She snorted. “Never thought I’d hear that from you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Coffee?” 

She gestured to the table beside the door where she’d deposited the cups, and he handed her hers before taking a gulp of his own. When she returned to the couch, he followed and flopped down beside her. 

The silence between them was comfortable; they’d sat that way so many times before, side by side, gathering strength in caffeine and shared warmth. Not touching, but close. Safe. 

Frank waited for her to finish her coffee, then turned to face her head-on. “So you wanna tell me how you got here?” he asked. 

She smiled a little, then, and pulled the notepad out of her purse. “You press down hard when you write,” she said, running her fingers over the still-visible indents. “Gotta be careful what you leave behind.” 

He groaned, but there was no weight to it, really, and when he ran his hand over his face the expression left behind was...oddly proud. “Annalise needs to stop takin’ you kids to crime scenes,” he said. “Jesus.” 

Laurel smirked, crossing her legs beneath her and giving him an arch look. “Good thing she does, though,” she said. “I’m a hell of a lot prettier than Joe.” 

Frank’s laugh was real that time. “True,” he said, “but Joe doesn’t know Annalise, and from where I’m standing right now...” 

Laurel hoped she looked indignant instead of just sad. “You think I’m here for her?” she asked. “Really?” 

“Nah,” he said. “Not like that, but...she’ll have questions, Laurel. For you. For Bonnie. And she won’t stop askin’. You know that.” 

_Fear._ It made her ache, somehow, to realize she’d never seen it on his face before, not really, not for more than a moment before his hackles went up. She reached for him, then, grasped his hand and forced his eyes onto hers. “She hasn’t,” she said. “Asked. And...I don’t think she will. She’s pissed, yeah, but I don’t think she’s…” 

The darkness in his eyes stopped her; she could see him turning inward, locking her out, shutting down. She squeezed his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice. “There’s...shit you don’t know, still,” he said. “Shit she wouldn’t just...let go. I can’t…” He sighed. 

She scooted closer to him, then. “Tell me,” she said. Her voice was quiet, gentle, but not tentative. She wasn’t ready, she wasn’t, but it was _time,_ and...well. She hoped he couldn’t hear her fear. Hoped she’d know the right things to say. 

So he told her: about the woman, the money, the bug and the crash and the baby. About Sam, at his throat and making deals. About the years since, the crimes, starting small but ramping up. The call in the night, the last, the worst. By the end, he was crying, trying hard to hide it but failing. Badly. Laurel felt tears pricking her own eyes, too, and fuck, she didn’t know how to _do_ this, she didn’t, but she just kept rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. Did not look away. Let him keep on. Let him say what needed saying. 

By the end, he looked lost. His eyes held a question, and she knew she had to answer. To forgive him, or to leave. 

The choice shouldn’t have been so easy. 

“Frank,” she said, “It wasn’t...you didn’t mean for--” 

“Yeah, it happened, though, didn’t it?” he said. It came out almost as a yell. “And the kid died, and then,” he let out a harsh laugh, “then I went on and killed someone else’s kid, and...and their grandkid too.” His voice broke a little, then, and Laurel couldn’t help it: she pulled him to her, practically into her lap, and held him. He felt small in her arms, somehow, and shit, it wasn’t alright, was it, but all the same she held him, stroked his back and let his tears stain her shirt. 

She couldn’t tell you how long they sat like that, but by the time he stilled, by the time his breaths came even, the sun was up, bright and warm even through the clouded windows of the shack. Laurel sighed into the soft cloth of Frank’s shirt, a shaky sound she immediately regretted. 

He pulled back. “Laurel,” he said, “I--” 

“No,” she said. “I’m not...I’m still here. It’s okay. I mean, it’s...it’s not, but...I’m not leaving, alright? I’m not.” 

Frank sighed; relief, but something else, too. He released her hand and stood, began pacing the room, not meeting Laurel’s eyes. “You should,” he said. “Leave. You really should.” 

“Frank…” 

“What? You just gonna quit school, stay here with me, make nice with the fine citizens of Bumfuck, Kansas? You think I want that? For you?” 

Laurel stood then, too, and blocked Frank’s path. Forced him to stop, to look at her. Crossed her arms and hardened her face. “No,” she said. “And you won’t, either. We’re going back, Frank. I’m bringing you back with me.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some changes to chapter 10 a few hours after posting, so if you read that early, you might want to check back. They weren't major plot changes, though, so it probably won't make much of a difference.

Frank looked to the ceiling, sighed, and walked past Laurel, toward the window. “And what?” he said. “We go back to work? Bring Annalise a nice bottle of wine and she’ll just welcome me back with open arms?” His voice was harsh, almost mocking, but Laurel could hear the desperation, the raw disappointment beneath his words. Could hear the wish, there, buried deep. 

She approached him, though the tension in his shoulders screamed ‘stay back.’ He tensed when she grasped his arm, but turned, nonetheless, and met her eyes. He looked...weary. Resigned. Laurel ran her hand up to his shoulder and let it rest there. 

“Not right away,” she said, voice soft. “Obviously not, you know, this week, but...after awhile? Once she’s had some time? Once you’ve both--” 

“No,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice, “Laurel, don’t. Don’t try to… _fix_ this. This isn’t something you can...work out between us, alright? This is…” he sighed. “This is too big. You gotta know that.” 

“Frank, you and Bonnie...you’re like her family. She--” 

_“No,”_ he said, shrugging Laurel’s hand off. His eyes were dark, then, and angry. “No, you’re not hearin’ me. I _killed_ her family. I took that from her, and didn’t…” For a moment, Laurel thought he’d cry again. Instead, he sighed, looked away. “She don’t want nothin’ to do with me.” 

Laurel felt frustration brewing within her, but struggled to tamp it down, contain it. “Right now,” she said, “you’re probably right. “But in a month? Two months? You really don’t think she’ll--” 

“No,” Frank said. “I know her better than you do, Laurel, and I can guarantee you that she won’t ever want me back in that house.” 

Laurel felt, for a moment, like the naive idealist he’d torn into that first day. Like a child. She knew better, though, this time; knew _him._ Knew when to press and when to yield, and could see that it was time to step back. Like a spooked horse, she thought. _Calm him, first. Gentle him._ She relaxed her own features, then, and met his eyes. “Okay,” she said. “Alright.” 

He looked confused. “So what, you’re sayin’ we’ll...stay, or--” 

“I’m saying,” she said, “that we’ve got the summer--I told everyone I’m, like, soul-searching across America or something--and we can just…” she shrugged. “Be, for awhile. Away from Philly. If that’s what you need.” 

Frank just looked at her for a minute, then, contemplating. _Looking,_ Laurel thought, _for the catch._

Well, no need to wait for him to find one. “If we could, though,” she went on, “I’d really rather we stay someplace other than Joe’s toolshed.” She stepped closer. Took Frank’s hand. “Maybe...a hotel? With an actual bed?” 

Frank’s face cleared a bit, then; Laurel could see the edge of mania fading from his features. After a moment, he smirked, and god, had she really missed that too? “I’m sure you would,” he said, taking her by the waist with his free hand. “Guess that could be arranged. Hell, my stalker’s already found me; clearly hiding doesn’t work.” 

Laurel laughed--a real, honest-to-god laugh--and leaned in to kiss him. 

*** 

They packed quickly--Frank, it seemed, had traveled light--and were out of the shed within the hour. Frank paused as they headed for the driveway. “Gotta at least say bye,” he said, gesturing to the main house. “You can wait here, if you want; it’ll just take a sec.” 

“What,” Laurel said, taking his hand, “You think I’m scared? Don’t think I could take him? I could totally take him.” 

Frank smiled. “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said. “Gotta check him for weapons first this time, though.” 

“Oh, of course.” Laurel smiled, too, and swung their hands gently between them. 

She could hear Joe groan from inside the house at Frank’s knock. “Alright, alright,” he said, “I’m comin’. Jesus, you get up in the morning like you got a damn _job.”_ He opened the door, finally, in boxers and what appeared to be the same wifebeater from the day before. “What,” he said, taking in the bags slung over their shoulders, “you headin’ out?” 

Frank nodded, stuck out his hand. “Been a pleasure, Joe, but we gotta get goin’. The lady’s not fond of bedbugs.” 

Joe chuckled. “‘M sure she ain’t; shoulda taken her someplace nice _last_ night. You’re charming, Frank, but you got no class. None at all.” He turned to Laurel, then, looking almost bashful. “I am sorry,” he said, “for, uh, yesterday. I really did think you were...well. Sorry.” He reached out a hand, and grinned when she shook it. “You keep this one in line, would you?” 

“I’ll try,” Laurel said. “Thank you, for, uh...having us.” A few more awkward goodbyes, and they were free. “I ditched my car a couple towns over,” Frank said, tapping the hood of Laurel’s car. “Had Joe pick me up. This thing still runnin’ okay?” “Well enough,” she said, climbing in. “Driver picks the music, though, so I hope you like show tunes.” 

*** 

They drove past the Alexis, Kansas exit a few minutes out. “Hey,” Frank said, pointing to the garish blue building. “You think they’d let us stay out the rest of my week rental after all?” 

Laurel stifled a laugh. “I...don’t think they’ll want to see you again at all, actually,” she said. “Now that they know you abandoned your pregnant wife and six-year-old son.” 

Frank looked at her with such pride, then, that she had to let the laugh out, after all. “Classy,” he said, patting her thigh across the armrest. “Real fuckin’ classy.” He returned his eyes to the road, then, but did not remove his hand. “I love you,” he said, more quietly. “You know that, right?” 

Laurel tensed for a moment, then, before relaxing, and resting her own hand over his. “Yeah,” she said softly, glancing his way once more. “Yeah, I know.”


	12. Chapter 12

They headed west. When Frank shot her a questioning look, Laurel shrugged. She’d thought about this. Knew what she was doing. “I figure we keep going,” she said. “We’re halfway there already; may as well see the west coast.” 

Right on the money: Laurel caught his grin out of the corner of her eye, saw him relax slightly in his seat. _Far away,_ she thought, _until he’s ready._

Frank spent the first five minutes of the drive mocking Laurel’s car snacks. “PB&J?” he said, holding up a sandwich. “Really? Where’re the Funyuns? The Mountain Dew? What kind of road trip is this?” When she offered to stop for breakfast, though, he refused, and within an hour, he’d eaten three sandwiches. 

“You hungry?” she asked, after the second. Her tone was light, but worry lurked beneath. 

He shrugged, mouth still full of peanut butter. “Didn’t stop much on the road,” he said. “Forgot.” 

She frowned, but didn’t press the issue. 

They only drove for about two hours before Frank spoke up again, tugging at his beard, his hair. “Alright,” he said, “I feel like a fuckin’ Chia Pet. You think they got barbers in…” he peered out the window at a passing exit sign. “Monroe, Colorado?” 

One glance at Frank’s hair and beard was enough to convince Laurel. “Worth a try,” she said, and took the exit. 

As it happened, Monroe had three whole streets, one of which--miracle of miracles--contained a Great Clips. Frank grimaced-- “I do _not_ get haircuts in fuckin’ strip malls, Laurel.” --but opted to risk it. 

Laurel, hung back in the parking lot. “I’m gonna walk around for awhile,” she said. “Stretch my legs.” 

Frank shrugged. “Fine. They fuck it up, though, you’re the one’s gonna have to look at it during... _intimate_ moments.” 

Laurel sneered back, stuck her tongue out as she brushed past him. “See you in a bit,” she said. “And if they fuck it up, I’ll shave it off in the night. I think you could pull off a buzz cut, don’t you?” 

She waited until he’d gone inside and she’d turned the corner to pull out her phone and dial Bonnie’s number. 

Bonnie answered quickly. “What?” she asked. “Did you--” 

“I found him,” Laurel said. “Long story, but...I found him.” 

Laurel thought she heard Bonnie sigh. _Relief._ “Okay,” Bonnie said. “So is he…?” 

It was Laurel’s turn to sigh, then. “He’s scared. He thinks Annalise’ll…freak out. I don’t know.” 

“He’s right,” Bonnie said. “I thought she’d be...better by now, but she’s not. Not yet. I don’t know what to tell you, Laurel. She needs time. If you come back now…” 

Laurel looked up to the sky, rubbed her forehead, and groaned. “I can’t, anyway,” she said. “He’s... _really_ not ready. At all. Freaked out at me when I suggested it.” 

“Well,” Bonnie said, “Stay with him. Please.” Her voice was soft, then; Laurel flashed back to that night a week before in Annalise’s house when she’d first heard that tone, and almost had to smile. 

“I will,” she said. “We’re actually on the road again, now. I figure if I can, you know, get his mind off of it, get him...calm, he’ll--” 

“Good,” Bonnie said. “Do what you have to do. And...keep me in the loop, alright? I’ll work on Annalise.” 

“Okay,” Laurel replied, only half listening. “I’ll...call you tomorrow. Gotta go. Bye.” 

Once she’d hung up, Laurel checked her wallet, checked the time, and ran across the street to the strip mall on the other side. _One more quick errand,_ she thought, grinning inwardly. _Can’t hurt._

*** 

She found Frank waiting outside the barber shop 20 minutes later, hair and beard trimmed neatly enough, but looking miffed. “Look at me,” he muttered. “‘M gettin’ high school flashbacks.” 

Laurel chuckled, looped her arm through his, and began walking back to the car. “I think you look quite dapper,” she said. “Your prom date will be so pleased.” 

“She better be,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “I’m hopin’ to get some limo action tonight.” 

Laurel snorted. “Add a corsage and maybe she’ll consider.” 

They didn’t talk much that afternoon; Frank fiddled with the radio till he found a hard rock station they could agree on, and aside from an occasional snide remark about a billboard advertising Jesus or firearms, neither had an awful lot to say. It was a comfortable silence, though; around 5 PM, Laurel glanced at Frank to find him asleep. She smiled, turned the radio down, and kept on. 

They reached Denver around 7:30, and Laurel shook Frank awake. “Hey,” she said. 

He looked up, disoriented. “What?” he said. “What’s up?” 

“Denver,” she said. “Good a place as any to stop, right? They’ll have actual food, at least.” 

Frank nodded. “Sorry I...” he gestured to himself, his sleep-rumpled hair and clothes. “I’ll drive tomorrow, or...whenever we leave, alright?” 

Laurel nodded, and handed Frank her phone. “Find a hotel,” she said. “Someplace nice.” 

*** 

They ended up at a downtown Hilton, in a tenth-floor room with a view. 

“You want first shower?” Laurel asked, dropping her bag at the foot of the bed and sitting on the edge. 

Frank quirked an eyebrow. “Two showers? What are we, nuns?” 

Laurel smiled. She was tired, grimy, hungry, but...well. “You’re right,” she said, rising again and pushing past him into the bathroom. “Who knows how much hot water they’ve got at this altitude. Good lookin’ out.” 

She stripped efficiently, her back to Frank. She could feel him watching, of course, but did not turn, and when she was done, she stepped into the shower alone. 

After two filthy days, the water was heavenly; she almost wanted to kick him out of the bathroom after all, have it all to herself for an hour straight, but... 

“You coming?” she said, still not looking his way. She’d missed this, too: teasing him. She could _hear_ his smirk. “Probably,” he said. The curtain parted again, and he stepped in behind her, pulling her backward till her back met his chest. 

She turned in his arms, then, and reached up to run a hand through his hair. “I like it like this,” she said. “Soft.” 

Frank screwed up his face a little, but leaned into her touch. “Look like a kid,” he said. 

Laurel grinned her most shit-eating grin. “Finally, you’re age-appropriate. When are you free to meet my parents?” 

Frank did not respond, just backed them up until they were directly under the spray. Once his hair was thoroughly wet, he grabbed a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo, poured a dab of it into his hand, and slicked his hair back with it, like he was used to. “There,” he said. “How ‘bout now?” 

Laurel snorted. “Well, now you’re graying,” she said, dabbing at a spot of shampoo froth by his temple. “Here, turn around. He relented, and she began washing the shampoo out, rubbing his scalp till the hair squeaked against her fingers. When she was satisfied, she let her hands drop from his head and run down his shoulders. She motioned for him to turn. “Do me,” she said. 

Another smirk. “Gladly,” he said. When she sneered, though, he took the bottle in hand again and poured what remained over her head, running it through her hair with his fingers. “God, you got a lotta hair,” he said. “You do this shit every day?” 

“You just don’t know how to do it,” she said. “Here.” She gathered her hair atop her head and scrubbed at her scalp through it, distributing the suds evenly. “Like that.” 

He gestured for her to turn around, then, and copied her motions, scrubbing at her scalp with his fingertips. “How’s that?” he asked; his voice was half-teasing, still, but lower, now, and soft. 

“Mm,” she mumbled, hoping he’d take that for a ‘good.’ 

She doesn’t know how long they stayed like that; for all she knows, she fell asleep, leaning back against him. Finally, though, he turned her back around. “Rinse off,” he said, voice barely audible in her ear. 

She did. The spray was cooling by then, but she liked it; it invigorated her. When she was done, she reached for Frank again, pulled him under with her, ran her fingers across his chest, nails first, scratching gently. 

“What,” he said, stepping closer. “You not gonna buy me dinner first?” 

Laurel laughed low in her throat, and slid her hands further down his torso, challenging him with her eyes. 

He didn’t mention dinner again. 

*** 

It took an hour and a half, but they _did_ eventually get clean, dressed, and decent. Laurel wore a summer sundress she hadn’t expected to need; Frank wore dark-wash jeans, a blue button-down, and far more Great Clips hair gel than was entirely necessary. Laurel looked him up and down and nodded approvingly. “You clean up real good,” she said. 

“You too,” he said, taking her in. “Though as usual, I do have some suggested alterations...” 

_“Public,”_ Frank. “Public, where there are children. And, I might add, other men. Rich, hot skiers, I’ll bet. Mmm…” 

Frank grasped the back of her head and kissed her, then, deeply. “They got nothin’ on me,” he whispered. “Promise.” 

Laurel scoffed, but let him lead her out the door. 

She googled nearby restaurants as they wandered the Denver streets, finally talking Frank into a small Italian place a few blocks away. The silent day of travel had caught up to them, it seemed; they barely shut up long enough to get a bite in, and it only got worse as they drank their way through a bottle of wine. Laurel felt a drunken blush rising in her face. _Just like this,_ she couldn’t help but think. _Like this, on and on. No more secrets. No more death. I could--_

Frank spoke again, then, pulling her back to earth. “Not as good as mine,” he said, washing down the last of his pasta with a gulp of wine, “but you are learnin’ how to pick ‘em.” 

“So glad I’ve got your approval,” Laurel replied, kicking him lightly under the table. “I’ll do you one better, though; I got us some after-dinner entertainment.” 

Frank’s raised his eyebrows, then, and Laurel laughed. “Not that,” she said, rummaging in her purse. “I mean...probably that, but…” She pulled a small baggy out of her purse and pushed it over the table toward Frank. “This, too. If you want.” 

Inside were two joints, neatly rolled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silliness ahead. Also, light drug use, if that was not clear. Happy, though. Don't worry.


	13. Chapter 13

He laughed; of course he laughed. Hysterically, for a moment, and then gently, meeting Laurel’s eyes between glances at the baggie. “Really?” he said. 

Laurel’s wine-blush grew, but his laughing eyes didn’t faze her. Not much about him fazed her, anymore, and she held his gaze steadily. “Not much to shop for in Monroe, Colorado,” she said. “It’s legal here, you know. A legitimate storefront business.” 

Frank laughed again, took her hand across the table. “You’re just full of surprises, princess. Jesus.” 

_“What,” she said, “like you never…?”_

“ _I_ did,” he said, sipping the dregs of his wine, “but I took you for a one-hit-on-somebody-else’s-pipe-sophomore-year-of-college kind of girl.” 

“Oho,” Laurel said, reclaiming her hand and the baggie. “Are we playing assumptions again? Remember how well that ended last time?” 

He nudged her foot with his under the table. “If I recall correctly,” he said, “it ended with you jumpin’ my bones.” 

Laurel tried to scoff, but grinned instead. “Well,” she said, “You’re not… _wrong,_ this time. I wasn’t, like, a pothead, by any means, but...hey, you know? You wanted a real road trip experience, and this?” she held up the baggie again. “This is the local culture! We should experience it while we’re here!” 

“Hey,” Frank said, holding up both hands in mock surrender, “I’m not complainin’. Let’s do it. Got any Dylan records while you’re at it, or--” 

Laurel swatted his hand across the table, but didn’t pull away when he grasped hers in turn. “It’s been...stressful,” she said. “These last few days. Good--really good--but...I thought we could both use something...silly. Fun. And when I saw the shop, I just…” Another shrug. _Wanted_ to.” 

Frank raised his eyebrows a bit, but didn’t say anything. Laurel thought she might have seen a bit of gratefulness in his eyes. “Works for me,” he said, depositing his napkin on the plate before him and gesturing to the waiter. “So let’s go.” 

*** 

They did it in the bathroom, exhaust fans going full-blast. Frank lit the joint, but passed it to Laurel before taking a hit. 

“What a gentleman,” she said, taking it from him and taking a lungful in as gracefully as she could manage. She coughed, though-- _dammit_ \--and damn _him,_ he laughed again. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, passing him the joint. 

“Shoulda known,” he said, taking his own hit smoothly. “Pre-rolled; how much did these _cost_ you? I could’ve rolled ‘em myself, saved you probably twenty bucks.” 

“They weren’t much,” she said, shrugging. “MAP, remember?” 

He didn’t pass it back right away. “Your daddy financin’ this whole trip, then?” he asked. 

“Not as far as he knows,” Laurel said, snatching the joint from his hand. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell, okay?” 

He laughed. “I’ll try. Go on, slow this time; try not to let it out too quick.” 

Laurel shot him a dirty look, but it did go better that way, and barely burned. 

They smoked in silence for awhile, then, just staring each other down until somebody laughed, over and over again till the joint burned out. Frank tossed the butt into the toilet, then, flushed, and stood, pulling Laurel to her feet beside him. 

Laurel pouted a little. “I don’t even _feel it,” she said. “Can you feel it? Maybe Colorado weed is shitty. We have another, though; maybe we should just--”_

Frank took her by the shoulders, leaned in till their noses nearly brushed. _“Wait,”_ he said. 

Laurel freed herself from his grasp and opened the bathroom door, gesturing for him to follow before closing it again behind the both of them. “Keepin’ the smell in,” she said. 

“Good thinkin’,” Frank replied, voice decidedly indulgent, before bouncing backwards onto the bed. “You’re a good egg, Laurel Castillo.” 

She giggled, then, and belly-flopped beside him. “I think I feel it now,” she said. “A little. Not, like, _much,_ though. Could just be the wine. We should smoke the other one. Come on. Let’s do it.” 

He turned to her, head on level with hers, eyes bright, still grinning. “What the hell’d I say?” 

Laurel rolled her eyes, but only for a moment before remembering. “Booze!” she said, bouncing back to her feet. “I have booze. I brought it, you know, because Bonnie said you might be being followed, and I didn’t wanna use my I.D. if I wanted a drink, or they might follow me to you. I drank some, back in like Missouri, but I brought...a lot. Probably too much. You want some?” She gestured his way with the half-empty handle. 

_Again with the fucking_ laughing. _Like I’m_ joking. _I’m not fucking_ joking. She opened the bottle and took a swig, not bothering with a glass. _Show him,_ she thought, but he just kept on, nearly hysterical on the bed. _“What?”_ she said. 

“Nothin’,” he replied, reining himself and standing to join her. “Gimme.” He took a swig of his own, winced a bit, then capped the bottle and set it on the end table. “Ahh. Refreshing.” 

She draped her arms over his shoulders, then, and tucked her face against his neck. They stayed like that for awhile, swaying back and forth, the booze and the weed and the weight of their journey settling into their systems. “I wanna kiss you,” she mumbled, finally, raising her head and meeting his eyes. Come on. Kiss me.” 

He did. Softly at first, almost chastely, but she was having none of it. She pulled him down by the neck and practically stuck her tongue down his throat. Ran her fingers through his hair, gel be damned. Mussed it till it looked like it did when he woke in the morning. The way she liked it best. She pulled him backwards toward the bed from whence they’d come. Pulled him on top of her. Held him like he’d float away if she didn’t. _Fucking_ Jesus, _I missed him._

She’d missed his weight, steady and solid atop her. The smell of him, too. The rasp of his beard against her neck. His hands, rough and soft at once on her face and chest and hips... 

All of a sudden, she was crying. She hid it--tried--but he pulled away quickly. 

“What’s wrong?” he said, rolling to his side beside her. Close, still--touching--but away. She tried to pull him back, but he held fast. “C’mon, Laurel, look at me. What’s goin’ on?” 

She rubbed her tears away, probably smudging her mascara, _shit,_ but-- _“Nothing._ Nothing. I’m just...God, you smell really good, and your hair, and your fucking… _beard,_ and I...I missed you a lot, Frank. I missed you, and...and I love you. So you can’t...leave again, alright? You need to stay with me.” 

Frank laughed, then; she hated him for it until she saw his wet eyes, matching hers. “Fuckin’ finally,” he said, voice rough. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, so goddamn gently, and she leaned into it. Grabbed his arm and draped it across her waist, practically on instinct. 

_But…_

“What?” she said. “Finally what?” 

He backtracked--looked up and away, laughed again--but his heart wasn’t in it; she could hear that much. “Nothin’,” he said. “Just...you love me.” 

Laurel’s face fell. “Frank,” she said, climbing atop him till his eyes couldn’t _not_ meet hers. _“Yes._ Jesus, I...I thought I’d...Oh, _shit,_ I didn’t…” 

His laugh was real, this time. “No,” he said, holding her gently by the small of her back. “No, it’s...me too. I love you. It’s...it’s okay. Laurel. Calm down.” 

Her tears fell freely, then, even as she wiped his away, one thumb on each cheek. “Don’t,” she said. “Shhh. Stop. Don’t cry. I...I mean it. I’m not just high. I mean, I am. High. And drunk. But...I mean it, okay?” 

His laughter settled into a smile. “I know,” he said. He splayed his arms at his sides, like a child making a snow angel, open as she’d ever seen him, eyes free in a way she almost didn’t recognize. His tears had almost evaporated, and it was the most beautiful thing Laurel had ever seen. 

She flopped across his chest, then, propped her chin on folded arms. Looked. Just looked. Soon, they were both giggling again. 

“Let’s go swimming,” Laurel said, pushing herself upward and rolling gracelessly to the edge of the bed. “C’mon. I wanna go swimming. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff is a gateway drug to more fluff. Be warned: not even once.


	14. Chapter 14

Frank didn’t even look particularly surprised at that point; he just grinned. “You got a suit?” he asked. 

Laurel’s smile faltered, but barely. “No, but...a swim suit’s basically just underwear. For guys too, really. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Come on!” 

He shook his head, then, but didn’t stop smiling. “It’s, what, midnight?” he said. “Pool won’t be open.” 

Laurel groaned. Returned to the side of the bed and took Frank by the hand. Pulled him up to join her. “Frank,” she said, “you’ve planted drugs in a stranger’s car--” 

_“Shhhhh…”_ His eyes grew almost panicked, and he put a finger to her lips, gesturing around them with his other hand, as though to point out all the Denver strangers who gave enough shits to listen. 

She lowered her voice to a whisper, but rolled her eyes doing it. “You’ve done...what...how many illegal things, but you won’t sneak into a pool with me after hours?” 

He sighed. “Alright, you wanna swim? C’mon. Let’s do it. ‘S sixty fuckin’ degrees out, I’ll freeze my nuts off, but let’s go swim.” 

So they headed out, grabbing a couple too-small hotel towels on their way. Laurel caught Frank swaying just a bit, missing the door handle on his way to pull it closed, and laughed. “You,” she said, “You’ve been _acting_ all sober, but then, you _stand up,_ and oh, how the mighty. Have. Fallen.” 

He laughed, too. He hadn’t seemed enthused about the pool thing, really, beyond indulging her, but his eyes gleamed, now, and he hurried ahead of her down the hall. The front-desk woman gave them an odd glance, but did not comment, which somehow made Laurel laugh harder. 

Laurel had noticed the pool on the way in from the parking lot. She had even noticed the ornate wrought-iron fence surrounding it. She had not, however, noticed the similarly decorative heavy-duty padlock holding said fence closed. 

_“Shit,”_ she hissed. She rattled the lock once, twice, but to no avail. 

“Go back,” Frank said, handing her the key card. “Get a bobby pin.” 

Laurel let out an incredulous laugh. “Really?” she said. “Could you even… _pick_ a lock, right now? Like, dexterity-wise, could you…” 

Frank scoffed. “Please,” he said. “Do you know me at all?” 

Laurel grinned, taking his hand. “What if you get caught? What if somebody calls the cops? You’d be willing to go to go to jail for breaking and entering, just so I can swim at midnight?” 

He winked. Squeezed her hand. “Happy to. Now, go.” 

She went. It took her awhile to find a bobby pin--she hadn’t exactly packed with fashion in mind--but she finally fished one out of a spare pocket of her purse, half bent out of shape but, she figured, suitable for this. When she returned to the pool-gate a few minutes later, pin in hand, Frank grinned broadly. 

“Gimme,” he said, and lo and behold, fifteen seconds later, the gate swung open. 

“My man,” Laurel said, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Damn right,” he said. “And you doubted me.” 

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “My apologies,” she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. 

They set their things on a deck chair, stripped down to their underwear...and hesitated. “It’s gonna be cold,” Laurel said. She could feel a cool breeze already, coming off the water from where they stood at the edge. It had been warm that afternoon, but now, it was practically sweater weather. She shivered. 

“Don’t wanna say I told ya so,” Frank said, stepping from foot to foot, “but…” 

“Then _don’t.”_ Laurel moved closer to him, grabbed his arm. “Let’s do it. Come on. It’ll warm up once we’re in. Come on.” 

She took a half-step closer to the water. He did not move with her. “You first,” he said. “Was your idea. Do a cannonball for me.” 

Laurel scowled. “No way,” she said. “We are _together_ in this. A _united front._ We go in at the same time. Come _on,_ Frank!” 

He did not stop grinning. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go. On three. One...two…” he didn’t step forward, though, and Laurel’s scowl grew deeper even as he laughed. 

“I can _tell_ when you’re lying,” she said, stalking over to stand in front of him. 

“So sue me.” 

Her smile grew devious, then. “C’mere,” she said. She lowered her eyes, leaning up as though to kiss him. 

Bless him, he fell for it. Stepped closer. As soon as he did, she grabbed him around the waist and pulled him backward, into the water with her. 

_Fuck._ It was colder than she’d expected, and when they spluttered to the surface, she probably looked just as shocked as Frank. 

_“Jesus,_ Laurel!” he yelled. He sounded angry, but he was half-smiling, still, and anyway, she knew him. She smiled, too. 

“S-sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around her midsection and wading over the stand close beside him. “It was for the greater good. Really.” 

“The greater...fuckin’...” He splashed her. “Screw you. Think my nuts got sucked back into my body. Jesus.” 

She splashed him back. “They weren’t your best feature, anyway. C’mere. We need to huddle for warmth.” 

“Think I’ll fall for _that_ again?” he muttered, but fall he did, wrapping his goosebumped arms around her and resting his dripping chin on her soggy head. 

Slowly, they adjusted to the temperature, but neither moved to disentangle. Instead, they drifted toward the deep end together, till only Frank’s big toes could touch the bottom. 

Laurel sighed. “This is good,” she said. “See? Told ya. This is good.” 

Frank huffed out a laugh. “‘S alright,” he said. “Remember, though, that we could be warm and dry in a fuckin’ bed right now.” 

She shrugged. “Pool sex?” 

_“No,”_ he said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “Tried it. Burns.” 

“Eww! What?” 

“Chlorine,” he said. “Fucks with the, uh…” he gestured vaguely downward. “Chemistry, somethin’ like that. Hell if I know, but...trust me.” His eyes went serious. “Never again.” 

Laurel pouted a bit, but recovered quickly. “Would a trashy makeout burn?” 

He grinned, pulling her to him. “What happened to _‘public,_ Frank?’” He raised his voice a solid half-octave to imitate her voice. 

She scoffed. “The children are in bed by now.” she said. She pulled herself up by Frank’s shoulders, wrapped her legs around his waist, and leaned in close. “Come on.” 

It was a solid argument; he conceded quickly. 

It was then--of course, of _course_ \--that they heard the gate clang. Laurel released Frank, turned to look; sure enough, it was the damn desk woman, looking decidedly displeased. 

“Excuse me,” she said; her tone was that of someone who’d seen just about everything, but still found it in her heart to be disappointed every time. “The pool is closed. You two will need to leave.” 

Laurel looked to Frank again, then; his face was the picture of innocence. “Sorry,” ma’am,” he said, moving toward the shallow end and pulling Laurel with him. “The, uh, gate was standing open, so we figured it would be alright.” 

The woman looked him up and down, stopping only when Laurel stepped in front of him and eyed her right back. At that, she settled her gaze on middle distance, frown deepening. “You’re also required to wear appropriate swimwear,” she said. “Suits with...linings.” 

“We’re… _very_ sorry,” Laurel said, picking up a towel and handing it to Frank before taking another for herself. “We’ll just...go, now, if that’s…” 

The woman nodded. “Have a good night,” she said. It sounded like a goodbye, but she followed behind them until they were all back in the lobby. 

*** 

As soon as their door had closed behind him, they both burst out laughing, the ugly, half-crazed laughter of those who, in more sober circumstances, might have felt some shame. Laurel stripped off her sodden underwear, went to her travel bag, and fished out a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. _“Fuck_ I’m cold,” she said. 

Frank cocked his head. “Worth it?” 

She smirked. “You might have had a point about the bed.” 

Frank changed, too, and they crawled under the covers together, hair still wet enough to soak the pillows. Laurel didn’t care, though; her drunken high was wearing off, leaving her sleepy and maybe a little hung over, but happier than she’d been in weeks. “Love you,” she whispered. Her cheek rested against Frank’s chest, but she shifted, met his eyes as she said it. 

His smile in return was soft, gentle. “Back at ya.” 

She snorted. “Terrible. You’re a terrible romantic.” 

“Well, wait ‘till I’m all the way thawed in the morning; maybe I’ll be more motivated.” 

“That’s _worse,_ Frank. Jesus.” She held him tighter, though, and grinned when he ran his hand through her tangled, chlorinated hair. 

They were asleep within minutes. 

*** 

Laurel woke first the next morning, still curled around Frank. It was easy enough to disentangle herself this time, though, and she headed into the hallway without waking him. 

Around the corner and well out of hearing distance, she called Bonnie. 

“How is he?” Bonnie asked, in lieu of “hello.” 

“Okay,” Laurel said. “We’re both okay. We’re in Denver, and he seems...better. Calmer.” She laughed a little. “Got him high last night.” 

Bonnie sighed. “Does he know you’re talking to me?” 

“No,” Laurel said. “Do you think I should...tell him, or--” 

“No. You did the right thing. If you tell him, he’ll close right back up. Keep quiet for now, at least until we have some good news to give him.” 

“How’s that going?” Laurel asked. “Annalise. How’s she…?” 

Another sigh. “I haven’t gotten a chance to mention it,” she said. “We’ve got a case, and we’re way understaffed with all of you gone; I’ll try to work that angle, but...it might be awhile, Laurel. Can you keep stalling?” 

“Yeah,” Laurel said. “Yeah, I can.” She smiled. “Frank’s hilarious, high, by the way.” Bonnie laughed. “Oh trust me, I know.” 

*** 

Frank was awake when Laurel returned to the room; still in bed, though, and he didn’t look worried. “Hey,” he said, rubbing his eyes and grinning up at her as she went to join him. “Where’d you go?” 

She got back in bed, leaned in for a kiss, and settled in beside him. “Just needed some air,” she said. Then, with a grin: “You thawed yet?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, sorry it's been so long. I've been busy with Real Life Shit. Posting should become regular again now, though. Enjoy!

They kept running: city to city, state to state, to the coast then down along it. Frank, Laurel found, took quite well to beach towns; it didn’t take much, there, to keep him entertained. Sun, surf, bikinis and cocktails and sex; the days, weeks, miles, towns all blended together. When they reached the Mexico border, they just turned and headed up again. Their skin reddened, then began to grow tan; Laurel got Florida flashbacks looking in the mirror. Frank’s hair was almost blonde by week five. He scoffed-- “gonna be a fuckin’ Beach Boy…”--but Laurel caught him running his fingers through it in the mirror, peering at it, _amused,_ at the very least. 

It was paradise. 

By week two, though...Laurel was exhausted. 

She called Bonnie twice a week for updates. Things were looking up; Bonnie promised they were, each time they spoke. “She mentioned him yesterday,” she said, three weeks in. “Something he did for a case, and she didn’t say anything about...the rest.” A week later: “She’s drinking less. Sleeping more.” Nothing solid, though; nothing real, and when Laurel pressed, asked about confrontations, _conversations,_ Bonnie’s voice grew diplomatic. “Soon, Laurel,” she said, each time, and each time, Laurel pitched her voice back up and acted fine again. 

By week seven, though, she knew Bonnie could tell. Could hear in her voice how goddamn tired she was. Not of Frank, no; not even of the road. She was tired of _pretending._ Of thinking quickly each time Frank’s eyes wandered, each time she saw him drifting back to the place in his mind where she’d found him. Of finding a way, always another way to distract him. She was so, so tired, and maybe...well, maybe if they got it _over_ with, went back and _confronted_ it, they could… 

Well. Not yet. Every week, it was “soon, Laurel,” but “soon” never became “now.” Not after two weeks, or five, or seven. Not after two months. _One more,_ Laurel thought, watching Frank sleep on beside her. _One more, then school starts, and I have to…what_...choose? 

Oh, she’d choose him. If it would help, if it would _fix_ it, somehow, she’d transfer out, go wherever he wanted. Fuck Annalise, fuck Bonnie, fuck the others. She would. But it wouldn’t save him, no; she wasn’t so naive. Until he spoke to Annalise--until she, _god help us,_ forgave him--it wouldn’t be over. This was limbo, and limbo couldn’t last. 

He stirred beside her. She smiled. 

*** 

She begged off swimming that afternoon, citing cramps and the nonzero possibility that sharks would smell her blood, and called Bonnie. 

“What’s wrong?” Bonnie asked. “You called two days ago. What’s going on?” 

Laurel sighed. “We’re fine,” she said. “I mean, nothing happened, but...has anything changed? Is she...better?” 

“Laurel…” 

“I know, but...Bonnie, I can’t keep going like this. Acting like everything’s fine, making _him_ act fine, when he’s still… _fucked up,_ because he is. He...this won’t last. We can’t keep playing fucking… _beach vacation_ forever. I think he needs--” 

Laurel heard the creak of a footstep behind her. Heavy. 

She turned, and… 

_Fuck._

“Gotta go,” she muttered. Hung up. 

Frank didn’t move; stood as though planted across the room until Laurel stood to go to him. He stepped back, then. A single step, but enough. She did not go further. 

“Frank,” she said. Her voice came out low. Shaky. _Guilty._ She met his gaze, but couldn’t hold it. 

“You been doin’ this the whole time?” he asked. His face was hard, but the cracks were clear to Laurel, running vein-like through his mask. She wanted to go to him, to hold him and make him forget, but-- 

“You thought a nice long trip would bring me to my senses?” He smirked, but his voice wavered, cracked. “Thought the majesty of the redwoods would remind me that forgiveness is possible? Jesus, Laurel. Shit. We gotta wean you off of Lifetime.” 

Laurel moved, again, to approach him, but he held up his hand to stop her. “No,” he said. “Don’t. Look, I...I need to go, alright? Need to...think.” 

“Frank--” 

“I’ll call you,” he said. The door slammed loud behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

Laurel did not follow him. Instead she went to sit in the chair he’d occupied, propped her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. 

Her sigh was deep. Satisfying. She waited for panic, but none came; this time--for the first time--she believed him. Believed that he would stay. Not with her, no--not yet--but...somewhere close. Somewhere safe. And he would call her. He would. 

It felt _nice,_ knowing that. Sure, the rest was shit, but that...that was nice. 

Oh, she cried, nonetheless--sobbed, beat the chair-arms with her fists, cursed Bonnie, Frank, herself; let the preceding weeks wash over and through her, bittersweet and tense and hard and _over_ \--but that felt damn good, too. 

She was disappointed, really, when her tears dried, when her fists began to ache and the catharsis wore off. _20 minutes,_ she thought, checking the clock beside her. _20 minutes, after weeks of constant contact, and I fucking miss him._ She let out a sob of a laugh. _Bastard._

She considered, really considered calling him right then. Does he know, she wondered, tugging at a ragged nail-end with her teeth, _that this was real?_ She was smart, though; knew better than to call. Threw her phone across the room onto the bed, instead, and knit her hands up in her lap. 

_He knows,_ she told herself, internally at first, then mouthed almost aloud. _He knows. He knows._ Still, she watched the phone from where she sat. Got up, once, to check that the ringer was on before returning to her post. 

She could wait. Knew she could. Knew she _had_ to. 

_Close,_ she told herself. _Safe._

*** 

Frank felt like a fucking cliche, walking down to the ocean to brood, but hell if he gave a shit. Nowhere else to go; the town had a bar, sure, but that would’ve just been worse. Nah, he’d be left alone on the beach, with the clouds coming in like they were. Hell, if it hadn’t been for the damn clouds, he wouldn’t’ve… 

_Fuck._

He tried sitting, but when he did, he just twitched. Walking was better, up and down the water’s edge, leaving footprints to get washed away again and again by the surf. Pacing, he supposed. Whatever. It helped. 

Thunder rumbled in the distance; Frank felt the first drops of rain hit his shoulders through his shirt, but didn’t stop. Couldn’t, because if he did, he’d-- 

_Shit._

At the first tongues of lighting in the sky, he backed away from the water. Pacing, he found, was nowhere near as satisfying in dry sand. Felt like going uphill both ways. He kept going, though, still, until sweat mingled with rain and saltwater on his clothes, in his hair. Until he realized his jaw was still clenched, his shoulders tense, and fuck, this wasn’t actually helping at all, was it? _Shit._

So he sat, in dampening sand and soaked-through clothes, and let go. 

He’d known, on some level; of course he’d known. Not _how_ it would happen--not about Bonnie, fucking Bonnie who he’d thought he could trust--but _that_ it would, sooner or later. That it would end. He hadn’t planned, though, had he? He was a planner, but he’d let go, let slide all the things that hadn’t fucking added up from day one. Had forgotten Laurel’s own damn words, back in Joe’s shed. “We’ve got the summer,” she’d said; what the _fuck_ had he thought that meant? 

He tried to hate her. Pictured her grin as she wrapped herself around him, _knowing_ what the fuck she was doing but going on, anyway, letting him think…It didn’t work, though, of fucking course it didn’t, and when he muttered “bitch” under his breath, he hated the sound, thrown back at him by the wind. Hated himself. Not her. Never her. 

He felt a vibration against his thigh and groaned. _Phone._ Part of him hoped, of course, that it was her. That she’d changed her mind. That she’d...but no. _Hell_ no. She didn’t deserve that. If she _did_ offer, he’d say no. He’d leave again, leave her fucking _be._ Let her have a fucking _life._ He’d-- 

It wasn’t her, though. The number on the screen was as familiar as his own: Bonnie. _Shit. Let it ring. Let her fucking try. Throw the damn thing in the ocean then_ go. Leave. 

Four rings later, he answered. “What?” 

“Frank,” she said. It wasn’t a question, or a plea, or an apology. An acknowledgement, maybe. A greeting. 

He grunted in response; thought about elaborating, but decided against it. 

She laughed bitterly; he could picture the accompanying face perfectly, and felt something tug in his chest. “Are you moping on a beach?” 

_Don’t laugh. Don’t fucking laugh._ “What the hell do you want?” 

Silence, then, for a few moments. He could hear her Bonnie’s breathing, though, and didn’t hang up. Finally, she spoke again, her voice quieter. “I’m sorry,” she said. And she was; he knew that tone, too. That face. 

He sighed. “I can’t come back, Bonnie,” he said. “You fucking know that, but you let her--” His voice cracked a bit, then; he held the phone away from his face, took a deep breath before trying again. “You lied to her, you let her lie to me, and for what? Is this Annalise? Is she behind this?” 

Bonnie barked out the world’s least amused laugh. “Fuck you, Frank. Fuck you. You think she wants you back?” 

“No, _I_ think she wants me dead.” He tried to sound hard when he said it. Tried to sound mad. She knew his face, though, like he knew hers. She’d know. 

More silence, then. Frank thought he heard Bonnie’s breathing change. Clenched the phone tight in his fist and waited. 

“She doesn’t,” Bonnie said, finally. Her voice was almost soft. “She doesn’t, Frank. Listen to me. I’m...I’ve been trying. To...talk to her, to get her to--” 

_“Bonnie,”_ he growled. _“Stop._ You--” 

“Shut up.” Her voice was glass-sharp again, then. “Listen to me. Laurel? She loves you. She wants to be with you. She tracked your sorry ass down, and I helped her. I _turned you over_ to her. You know why? Because you need her, and we need you. Do you hear me? We _need_ you. Annalise and me. We do.” 

“Bullshit,” Frank muttered. It was a soft sound, though; he didn’t even try to hide the threat of tears in his voice. 

Bonnie did not bother protesting. The silence was comfortable this time, and they let it sit. 

“Go back, Frank,” she said, finally. “Get out of the damn rain, and go talk to your girlfriend. We’ll talk tomorrow.”


	17. Chapter 17

So _maybe_ he stopped at the bar on his way back to the hotel. Maybe he ordered a whiskey neat, then chased it with Laurel’s favorite beer. Maybe he waited till the buzz hit to walk back in the dissipating rain, and maybe by the time he arrived, he felt like maybe, just maybe… 

Well. 

Laurel was there when he arrived, of course, curled up in the armchair, nursing a glass of vodka and staring at what appeared to Frank to be an utterly ordinary hotel-room corner. It took the click and creak of the door to rouse her, and when she looked up… 

*** 

She wasn’t sure how long it had been; had tried to avoid thinking about it, and had apparently succeeded. There he was, though, rain-drenched, drunk...and smiling. 

She set her glass on the floor beside her, stood, and approached him. Stood maybe too close and looked him in the eye. She did not smile--not yet. Waited for his cue. 

He chuckled. “Here I thought I was good at secrets,” he said. When she didn’t react, he raised his hand, ran his knuckles gently over her cheek. “Quiet ones, huh? Shoulda listened.” 

“Frank--” 

He lowered his hand to rest heavily on her shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Hey. ‘S okay.” 

She let herself relax, then; let herself lean into his touch, because he was drunk, yeah, and the words were hoarse and slurred, but she knew when he meant it, and he fucking meant it then. _It’s okay._ This time, she didn’t have to tell herself twice. 

She brushed a tear away, moved in closer. “I’m sorry,” she said. Heard the booze in her own voice, but didn’t care. Couldn’t fucking care. “I should’ve...said something. Earlier, but you were so… _scared,_ and I thought I could...fix everything, but…” she sighed. “It wasn’t fair. Or...right. I should’ve--” 

He pulled her to him, then, and rested his forehead against hers. “Look at me,” he said. “C’mon. ‘S okay. We’re okay.” 

She broke a bit, then. Broke because here he was, the injured party, comforting her, after everything. One hand rubbed soothing circles on her back while the other ran through her hair, his eyes stayed steady on hers, and it was too much. She broke away just enough to bury her face in his clammy shoulder and pull him closer. Hold _him. Something._

He laughed, then, low and barely audible; a vibration, more than anything, running through him, into her. “As nice as this is,” he said, “I’m fuckin’ freezing, and you’re gettin’ wet--not in the fun way.” She pulled away and looked down at her shirt, which was, in fact, practically soaked through. 

She couldn't help but smile at that, somehow. 

*** 

They changed, then, and sat on the bed, cross-legged across from each other, clutching vodka tumblers like kids with cocoa mugs. For too long, neither spoke. 

Finally, Laurel downed what remained of her drink and met Frank’s eyes. “So,” she said. 

He quirked his lips into some sort of smile, but she could see the tension beneath it. Resisted the urge to move closer, to take his hand. Settled for nudging his foot with hers. “What’re you thinking?” she asked. 

“Honestly?” he said. “‘M hopin’ that you’ve got some kind of plan, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t, and Bonnie didn’t seem to, either.” 

Laurel furrowed her brow. “You talked to her?” 

His smile almost looked real, then. “She called,” he said. “While I was out. Said she was ‘workin’ on it,’ whatever the hell that means.” 

Laurel didn’t know what to say to that. Settled on smiling in a way she hoped looked hopeful. “She’s waiting,” she said, “for the right time to talk to her.” She saw Frank tense again, but pressed on. “She says she’s calming down. That she doesn’t seem so mad anymore.” 

“She is,” Frank said. His voice was low, quiet. Certain. “That isn’t gonna change. Trust me on this.” 

Laurel sighed. Shrugged. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But there’s pissed and there’s _pissed._ Bonnie seems hopeful, and that’s...not a word I’d usually use to describe her.” 

That got a laugh, and when Frank raised his eyes to meet hers, Laurel could swear she saw hope there. Weak, half-dead, but there. “You’re gonna be a damn good lawyer,” he said. “You almost got me convinced.” 

She did take his hand, then. Squeezed it. “We’ve still got time,” she said. 

She held her breath, waiting for his response; when he nodded, her heart beat faster, but she schooled her features. Waited for more. 

“She said she’ll call again,” he said. “Tomorrow. Said we’ll talk then.” 

Laurel nodded back. Let her smile grow. “Yeah,” she said. “Tomorrow.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:   
> I've more or less rewritten this chapter. I couldn't help it; I realized exactly how I want things to play out, and the way it was before just didn't fit. If you read the old chapter and are now confused, I'm sorry. It literally just occurred to me this evening on the way home from work that I'd be more proud of this story with these changes, and that it's worth it in the long run, as annoying as it may be right now. 
> 
> If you didn't read the old version...well. Good. This is better. Enjoy!

In some ways, nothing changed. Bonnie was clear, during their conference call the next day, that Annalise was still nowhere near ready. Laurel had expected Frank to take that badly, but he’d just smirked at her over the phone that sat between them on the duvet. “What,” he said, “You’re gonna make me stay _here?_ It’s 80 degrees and sunny, Bonnie. I’m stuck in a beachfront hotel with a beautiful woman and entirely too much alcohol. I haven’t read a legal brief in _months._ You can’t leave me like this. Come on.” Laurel heard Bonnie’s sigh through the speakerphone, but was sure she, too, was relieved. 

So they kept on, heading further up the coast than they’d ever been, into Oregon, where the air had a bite in the evenings and they could see all the stars. They slept in hotels and motels and--most notably--a literal cabin in the woods. They drank and laughed and fucked, and everything was good. 

Beneath the surface, though, things were different. Sharper somehow, clearer, with the promise of an end in sight. _Making the most of it,_ Laurel thought. Food was better, booze was stronger, sex was...well. Laurel had been happy before, she really had, but there was a _freedom_ to it all, now, and ironically, part of her no longer wanted it to end. 

Sometimes, they discussed what was coming. Frank would mention Bonnie, the office, Annalise, then pause; that was how Laurel knew it was alright to proceed. To bring up strategy. It never went on for long--it was a bruise, still, not yet fully healed--but as the days passed, it began to feel almost normal. Almost like working a case. 

It would take more than idle talk, though; Laurel knew that. She took to staying up an hour or two after Frank fell asleep each night, and walking--the beach, usually, but the woods did well enough, too, and she’d settle for roadside scrub in a pinch. It helped her to think. To plan. Frank knew where she was--she made sure of that, the very first time. He probably knew why she did it, too, but that was okay, now. She reveled in that; it had been so long. It was okay, and when she slipped back into bed beside him afterwards, he made room every time without waking. 

Out there, away from Frank and the world at large, she could let her mind float free. It reminded her, somehow, of late nights at the office, buried in files and silence. In every cram session, every caffeine-fueled marathon, there comes a point when conscious thought leaves off and something else takes over, something dreamlike and amorphous. That, Laurel had learned, was where ideas came from, and for whatever goddamn reason, she could reach that point on the beach. No caffeine necessary. 

No dice, though; night after night, she returned to the room with nothing to show for her time. Oh, she had ideas--twice a night or more, the magic words, the final pieces to the puzzle would bubble up from her subconscious and cry out for attention. They practically shot themselves down, though, when her conscious mind returned. _Too glib,_ she’d think, or _too emotional,_ or _she’d kill him, kill the_ both _of us, kill_ herself. _No. No, no, no._

Shit, this should have been _nothing._ She’d reasoned her way through far worse--in the woods, over the sickening sound of saw on bone, she’d kept calm, kept the peace, kept them all from getting caught. She’d nearly cracked at the Hapstalls’, but then, too, she’d pulled through, taken the weight no one else would upon her shoulders. She could _do_ stress. It was in her blood, in her fucking _genes;_ regardless of everything else, her wits remained. She _found a way._ Now, though… 

This was not logical. A smooth voice and the right words would not get Frank home. Would not soften Annalise’s rage. Would not fix the pile of _shit_ that was their situation. This...was too close, and for once, the risk felt too damn high. 

Frank could not lose Annalise, and she could not lose Frank. 

She kept on walking. 

It was around 1:30 on the twelfth night when the call came in. The sound of her ringtone jarred her harshly back into reality; she almost fell, but managed, nonetheless, to answer on the third ring. _Bonnie._

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Bonnie said, and for once--perhaps for the first time since Laurel had _met_ her--it sounded like the truth. “I’ve worked it out. It’s time. You two can come back now.” 

Laurel was silent for a moment. When she did speak, the voice that came out sounded foreign, alien. She felt, somehow, like she’d never left her mind; like this was all a dream. “What? You...you talked to her?” 

Bonnie paused, then, just long enough for Laurel’s hopes to deflate. “No,” she said. “Not yet. But I have a plan.” 

Laurel sighed. “Okay, that’s...good. What is it? What are you going to do?” 

More silence. Laurel seriously considered hanging up. When Bonnie spoke again, her voice was lower, tighter. Hesitant. “Frank can’t know,” she said. “So if I tell you, you’ll have to keep it from him. Can you do that?” 

Laurel felt her head shaking before she could think to respond. “No. Not...I’m not lying to him again. Not after last time. I can’t…” 

Bonnie sighed. “Then you’ll just have to trust me. It’s time to come home, Laurel. It’s time to bring Frank home.” 

Laurel kicked the sand; for a moment, she’d actually let herself hope. “Not without a plan. There’s no way I can get him to go back there without knowing what’s coming. I wouldn’t _want_ him to. Either you tell us, or--” 

_“Laurel.”_ Bonnie’s voice cut sharply, and Laurel felt herself standing at attention. “Listen to me. If you love him--if you care about him at all--you will get him back to Philly. This might be hard for you to believe, but I know what I’m doing.” 

Laurel turned backward; faced the hotel, whose topmost windows peeped over the treeline. Looked to where she knew Frank was sleeping. Waiting for her. Listened to the radio silence in her ear, as though something more was coming. When nothing, did, she sighed again. “How? How do you know that whatever you thought up at...four A.M. is going to work? Why should I believe you?” 

Bonnie’s answer was immediate this time. “Because I know Annalise. Better than anyone in the world. And...if anything will work, it’s this.” 

When Laurel didn’t respond, Bonnie went on. “Get him ready,” she said. “Tell him I have a plan, and that if he trusts me for shit, he’ll get in the car with you tomorrow. Tell him...I love him, and that it’ll work. Can you do that?” 

Laurel didn’t want to respond; wanted to hang up, to return to their room, to Frank, and pretend she’d never answered. Something in Bonnie’s voice, though...there was a gentleness, there. A care to match Laurel’s, and a loneliness she couldn’t help but recognize. 

Laurel’s own voice gentled on instinct. “I’ll tell him,” she said. “And...I’ll try.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:   
> A few days after posting chapter 18, I more or less completely revamped it. I couldn't help it; I realized exactly how I want things to play out, and the way it was before just didn't fit. If you read the old chapter 18, you should go back and read the new one before continuing, as what follows won't make much sense otherwise.
> 
> If you didn't read the old version...well. Good. My new plan is better. Enjoy!

Bonnie did not sleep much, as a rule. Working for Annalise meant staying at the office as late as it took and returning promptly the next morning. She was used to it; she could go for days on sleep snatched in moments between files. There were limits, though, and since Frank’s disappearance, she’d been hitting them more often than she’d like. Things had only gotten worse since he’d cottoned on to her dealings with Laurel; the pressure now was greater: to smooth things over, talk Annalise around, to fix it like she always did. She hadn’t _lied,_ exactly, when she’d told Laurel that things were getting better, all those weeks ago. Annalise really was drinking less; “less” in this case just happened to mean half a bottle a night instead of a whole. As for discussion--actually broaching the subject--well, there was time. Had been, anyway. Now… 

Well. 

She didn’t sleep most nights, now. Lay in bed, sometimes--dozed, maybe, after a handful of melatonin pills and half a bottle of wine--but never truly lost consciousness. Never escaped her own damn mind, running, running through every fucking possible solution. 

It was why Annalise had kept her, all those years; she did not turn off. 

Good thing, too, now; waiting was no longer an option. Frank was being good, so far--had taken the knowledge like a man, far better than she’d expected--and she’d _far_ underestimated Laurel, but this couldn’t last. The pressure was real; no more measuring in months. No more “there’s time.” There wasn’t fucking time, and it was on her. 

Bonnie was not a woman built for eureka moments; those were Annalise’s job. Bonnie plodded, sifted, grunted along for every win she got. She had long since stopped waiting for clarity, for brilliance. It didn’t even bother her anymore, really. It was what it was. 

Imagine her surprise, then, when the answer hit her; when the pieces fell together and she saw what needed to be done. Not a pure victory, no--a devil’s bargain at best, by most people’s standards--but _something._ A _chance._

Her first instinct was to call Laurel. It had alarmed her, at first, to have to trust the girl, but since she’d done it--really _found_ him, somehow--Bonnie had developed a sort of affection for her. Sometimes, she thought she saw herself in Laurel, but no; she knew, deep down, that she would not respect that picture nearly as much. Perhaps it was Annalise she saw, there. Younger, of course, and softer, still, but just as ruthless underneath. Just as strong. 

_Kind, though,_ she thought, pouring herself another glass of wine, _and as close to good as any of us._

She held the phone for a long time, considering. She couldn’t tell her; _couldn’t._ Not all of it, anyway. She needed them both fresh and nervous for this to work at all. Needed them real. No, all she could do was tell them it was time; call them home. Until they arrived, this was hers and hers alone. 

She pitied Annalise her epiphanies, then; the rush wasn’t worth it. 

She’d tell herself, later, that it was a test, asking Laurel to lie again. A cruel little test, and Laurel passed. No, she wouldn’t have told her. Couldn’t have, no matter how _shitty_ it felt not to. 

She swallowed the last of her wine and downed her pills. Took a shot for good measure, too, before crawling into bed. 

_It’ll work,_ she told herself. 

Finally, she slept.


	20. Chapter 20

Laurel kept walking for awhile after the call. Her phone died after maybe half an hour, and she didn’t have a watch, but it didn’t matter; Frank would go on sleeping, and she would return when she was ready. When she’d figured out what the _hell_ to do. 

She’d tell him, of course. Always, now. It was almost second nature at this point. (Almost.) She’d tell him everything Bonnie’d said, and they’d figure it out. Together. 

She wasn’t so far gone, though, as to think she should go into that conversation blind. Without a plan. Honesty didn’t have to mean abandoning finesse, diplomacy. She’d tell him, sure, but she’d tell him _right._

And as yet, she had no fucking idea what “right” meant. 

So she kept walking. 

Barring a break from pattern, he’d freak, first thing. Freak, and maybe run. Not far--he’d learned his damn lesson on that one--but _off,_ somewhere, to process; to think. Her job, then, was to make him think the right things while he was gone. 

There it was again-- “right.” If Bonnie was to be believed, the right thing was to return, but hell if Laurel was sure she _could_ believe her. Her voice on the phone...Laurel sighed. She’d been crying, or close to it. Stressed, at the very least. Drunk, too, probably. Bonnie was a smart woman, sure, and nowhere near as reckless as Annalise, but was that enough? Was Laurel willing to bet on that? 

She kicked the sand and sighed. Crossed her arms and stared, once more, at their hotel and the budding sunrise behind it. She was tired, so damn tired; all she wanted was to go up there, curl up next to Frank, and sleep for a few hours. Just a few. That was all she needed, though she knew he wouldn’t wake her till noon if she didn’t get up on her own. _Beach life,_ she thought. Her smile in response was tired. _We need to get out of here._

And they did. They really did. She was more than ready, and deep down, she was pretty sure Frank was, too. _It’s time:_ the words had run through her mind on a loop for so long by then, in the background, and now, finally, it was. Had to be. _Had_ to be. 

Bonnie couldn’t be _that_ wrong; if anyone hated failure nearly as much as Annalise did, it was Bonnie, and this failure...she wouldn’t risk it. She wouldn’t, any more than Laurel would. She had to be sure. 

The tide had come in without her noticing; Laurel felt the waves lapping at her toes over her sandals. She kicked the shoes off, though, rather than retreating. _Not done. Not yet._ She picked the shoes up and carried on. 

It should have worried her, she knew, how secretive Bonnie was being, but honestly, she was almost used to it; had spent enough time with Annalise and co. to accept, on some level, that she would never know everything. It was sick, but sometimes, secrecy was _necessary._ Bonnie was right: Laurel _would_ have told Frank, and hell, Bonnie knew him better than she did, didn’t she, still? Knew how he’d react to whatever was coming, and knew that it wouldn’t be good. 

Hell, maybe she should have lied; should have told Bonnie she’d have kept the plan from Frank, if necessary. Should have gotten all the information she could. Somewhere along the line, though, she’d stopped lying to _Bonnie,_ too. She’d grown to trust her, against her own better judgment. Had come, even, to _like_ her. 

_Shit._

Laurel failed to stifle a yawn. She was getting nowhere, and it had to have been hours. She turned took one last look at the ocean, then headed back up the shore. 

*** 

When she got to the room, Frank was predictably asleep, one arm beneath his pillow, legs bent and tangled in the covers. Laurel smiled; made her way toward the bathroom with only the light of the burgeoning sunrise through the window. No, she would not wake him; the news was not urgent. She would let him sleep. 

She washed the sand from her legs, dried them with one of yesterday’s discarded towels, and padded back out into the main room, stripping off her clothes as she went. She was careful, shifting under the covers on her side of the bed, but Frank stirred a bit nonetheless, not waking, but reaching for her in the dark. As soon as she’d positioned herself comfortably beside him, he wrapped himself around her;, slotted one leg between hers, draped an arm across her middle, mashed his face against her clavicle in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Laurel huffed out a laugh; she wondered, sometimes, it he knew how adorably ridiculous he was in his sleep. She ran a hand gently over the back of his head, breathed him in, and sighed. 

_Tomorrow,_ she thought. _It can all wait till tomorrow._

*** 

She awoke to find Frank still half atop her, apparently asleep. She had her doubts, though, which were confirmed when she skimmed a hand over his shoulders and felt the vibration of a laugh run through him. She arched her fingers, then, and rubbed harder, practically scratching the skin. He arched into it, and she laughed, too. 

“I can’t decide if you’re a cat or a dog,” she said. 

He hummed. “Either way, what’s that make you?” 

Laurel snorted, but did not remove her hand. Neither spoke, then for awhile. 

Laurel’s mind whirred to life again within minutes, though the hedonist in her begged it not to. She thought, again, about what was coming. About what she knew she had to say, now, _now,_ Hallmark morning or no. _One more minute,_ she told herself, _and it’ll count as a lie. Say it. Just fucking_ say _it._

When she did, it was without finess. Without artistry. She said it simply. Softly, but without hesitation. “Bonnie called. Last night. She says...she’s ready.” 

Frank shifted his weight away, then; leaned back on his elbows and looked at her. “She talked to her?” 

Laurel forced her brow not to furrow. “Uh, no, but,” she shrugged; did her damndest to sound casual, calm. “She says she has a plan.” 

Frank frowned. Sat up fully, legs thrown over the side of the bed. “She tell you what kind of plan?” 

This, _this_ was where Laurel had planned to work some kind of magic. Where she’d hoped to know just what to say, like she always did, like she was _supposed_ to. Instead, she met his eyes. Shrugged again, but with none of the surety she’d faked, before. _Fuck it,_ she thought, and this time, she meant it. If he needed the truth--and he did, they _both_ did--then he’d get it uncut, unfiltered. “I don’t know,” she said. “She wouldn’t tell me. Said it would be...better that way, somehow." 

Frank looked incredulous at first. Then mad, though Laurel could see the muscles working in his jaw to hold it in. _At me? At Bonnie?_ Laurel kept her eyes on his; did not let herself wonder too long. Did not let herself doubt. Finally, his face settled into an uncertainty she’d seen all too much of, lately. A quiet fear. He sighed. 

“So why’d she just call you? She want you to keep it quiet? Not tell me?” 

Laurel paused before nodding. “She...offered to tell me, but said I couldn’t tell you.” She took a deep breath. “I told her that wasn’t happening.” 

Frank’s smile in response was rueful, tired, but genuine. “Morals,” he muttered. “Still. After everything. Catholic school did a number on you, huh?” 

Laurel half-smirked. “Bonnie can see through phone lines,” she said. “She’d have known I was lying.” 

Frank snorted, then they were quiet again for awhile. The tension in Frank’s face, in his body did not dissipate, but Laurel had expected that. Had expected far worse. If nothing else, he looked to be thinking, considering their options, and she was more than happy to wait it out with him. 

Finally, his eyes returned to hers. “She seem sure?” 

Laurel nodded. “Very. And...she told me to tell you she loves you.” Laurel quirked her eyebrow as she said it, almost as though it were a joke, but she saw Frank read her loud and clear. His eyes softened further, and he smiled. 

“Drunk, then,” he said. “Perfect.” 

Laurel scooted to sit beside him, and took his hand in hers. “She does,” she said. “Love you. And...I don’t think she’d call us back if she wasn’t sure.” 

Frank sighed. “So when’s she want us there?” 

Laurel looked up sharply from where their hands were joined. “Uh...now, she said. As soon as we can get back. But if you’re...I could stall her, if you need me to. If...you need a few days. I’m sure she’d…” 

It was Frank’s turn to smirk, then. “You scared?” 

Laurel frowned. “No, but…” 

Frank turned to face Laurel full on, then. The fear, the uncertainty was still plain to see in his face, but he just kept smiling. Reached up to brush a strand of sleep-mussed hair from Laurel’s brow. “Then let’s go,” he said. “Rip off the band-aid. Get it the hell over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longish delay. Have a longish chapter to make up for it...?


	21. Chapter 21

They packed their shit up that morning. There wasn’t much _to_ pack, really--neither had set out with much, and over the weeks and months on the road, they’d consolidated significantly, using up and discarding just about everything that wasn’t strictly necessary for beachside vagrancy. In the end, everything fit snugly in two duffel bags. 

“What’re you thinkin’?” Frank asked, watching her stare down the bags in a way he more than recognized. His tone was light, joking, but Laurel thought she sensed a note of caution there, too; an edge of worry. 

If she’d learned anything that morning, though, it was that straight talk _worked_ now. “I was thinking...we could fly,” she said. “If we wanted to. The car’s a piece of shit; it’ll cost us more in gas than we’d spend on plane tickets.” 

Frank frowned slightly, but it looked more pensive than anything; certainly not angry. He came to stand beside Laurel, looked at the bags, and nodded once. “True,” he said, and when he met her eyes, he looked almost...pleased. “Good. Midwest motels are shit.” 

Laurel searched his eyes. “Yeah,” she said, “but are you...are we _ready?_ To get there...what...today?” 

Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your idea, but like I said, if Bonnie’s ready, and you are…” He sighed. “Let’s just do it.” 

Laurel watched him for a moment more, but when nothing changed in his face, she grinned. “Thank god. I don’t need another Illinois bedbug scare.” 

They called Bonnie first; she answered on the second ring, voice groggy. “Wha…Laurel. Did you...how’d he take it? Are you coming? Did he…” 

Laurel met Frank’s eyes over the phone; tried to keep her laugh quiet. “Yeah,” she said. “He’s on the line, actually. We’re...ready. I guess.” 

Bonnie hummed her assent. “Good. How long will you be? You’re still in California, so...what...a week?” 

Laurel cleared her throat; met Frank’s eyes again before pressing on. “Actually, we, uh...we were thinking of flying back. It’ll be cheaper, and we kind of both just want to get it over with.” When Bonnie didn’t respond right away, Laurel went on, speeding up, filling the silence. “We could wait, though, too, and fly back in a few days, if you’re not quite ready. Or--” 

Bonnie cut her off. “No,” she said. “That’s...smart. I told you, I’m ready. Let me know when you get in; I’ll pick you up.” 

Frank spoke up, then. “Hey Bon?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re sure about this?” 

Bonnie was quiet for a long moment before responding. Finally, she sighed. “That it’ll work? No.” Frank’s flinch was almost imperceptible, but Laurel caught it; took his hand, though he did not seem to notice. “But it’s our best shot. You have to trust me on that.” 

Frank sighed, too, and released Laurel’s hand and rubbing the creases from his forehead. “And You can’t tell me what the plan is?” 

Laurel could clearly hear the pain in Bonnie’s “no,” firm as it was. She looked to Frank, expecting anger, hurt, something, but he just nodded once, terse but certain. “Alright,” he said. “It better be good. I’ll, uh...see you soon.” 

When the call ended, Frank did not move right away; did not even look away from the phone. He looked far away; deep in thought. 

“You’re actually okay with this?” Laurel asked. “Flying out there, not knowing?” 

Frank hesitated, but nodded again. Shrugged. “It’s Bonnie,” he said. “I have to trust her.” 

Laurel nodded, too, though she didn’t understand; couldn’t. Not really. Whatever Frank and Bonnie had--whatever twisted bond--it was bigger, darker, stranger than she knew. Maybe than she’d ever know. She felt a twinge at that, but tamped it down. Shut it out, because hell if that bond wasn’t exactly what Frank needed right now. She met his eyes and smiled. “Good. So...let’s go.” 

*** 

Frank found a scrapyard willing to tow the beater away; Laurel even talked the yard man into forking over a couple hundred for the metal. (“Thank god for your Annalise voice,” Frank said; Laurel just elbowed him in the ribs and continued scrolling flight deals on her phone.) By noon, they were booked on a flight to Philly. 2 PM. One way. 

They were quiet over lunch, and in the cab on the way to the airport. Laurel watched Frank closely, but he seemed for all the world like himself. Tense, sure, but she was used to that; the current of stress running beneath his skin was as much a staple for him as the suits he wore to work. Until they started dating for real--until she got to see him in rumpled sleep-clothes, cooking or watching TV or distracting her from whatever textbook she brought over for the weekend--she hadn’t even known what he looked like, truly calm. Hadn’t recognized his cool facade for what it was. 

She prided herself maybe too much on how well-versed she was in his mannerisms, now; forgot, sometimes, that he knew hers just as well. That caught up to her once they were through security, when he caught her glancing his way, checking in on him for probably the eightieth time that day. 

“You alright?” he asked. 

She nodded quickly, on instinct; averted her eyes. She’d barely acknowledged it all morning, but her heart rate was up, her hands paradoxically sweaty and cold. _How fucked up is it,_ she wondered, _that_ I’m _the scared one, here?_

Frank took her hand and held it loosely in his. “Bonnie’s a goddamn...evil genius,” he said. “She knows what she’s doin’. It’ll work.” 

He sounded sure. Laurel knew that wasn’t possible--knew some doubt must remained, Bonnie or no--but it was exactly what she needed to hear, nonetheless. She squeezed his hand tighter; didn’t let go until the stewardess called their boarding zone. 

*** 

On the plane, they tried to keep busy. Laurel nixed Frank’s suggestion that they join the mile-high club-- “Really? Seriously?” --but the pastime they settled on was not exactly innocent, either. 

“Alright,” Laurel murmured, “murder case. Prostitute killed a john who stiffed her; she’s claiming self-defense. Who gets onto the jury?” 

“Hmm…” Frank leaned in closer, mouth maybe an inch from her ear. “Not toupee; $20 suit, probably divorced, and I’d bet good money he’s fondled a stripper within the past month. Your turn.” 

“Amethyst Crystals, definitely. 50, Wiccan, hates men.” 

In the middle of their fifth voir dire, the stewardess came around offering drinks; Frank was quick to order them each a tiny airplane vodka. 

“Eat, drink and be merry,” he said, downing his bottle in one go. “For tomorrow…” 

“Don’t,” Laurel said, but she drank hers down, too. 

The drinks kept coming after that, against Laurel’s half-hearted protests. The juries they formed got sillier, and, their justifications, apparently, louder--after another half hour or so, their seatmates began shooting them dirty looks, and they were forced to lapse into a silence that lasted more or less until landing. 

Bonnie was waiting for them, as promised, by baggage claim. She looked thinner, almost gaunt, and exhausted, but there was a determination to her stance that comforted Laurel, and when Bonnie spotted them, her smile was real. 

She hugged Frank, first, and held on. Laurel worried, briefly, that Frank might actually crush her, but she found herself smiling at the sight. She thought she heard Frank mutter something to Bonnie, and definitely heard Bonnie laugh through what sounded for all the world like a lump in her throat. Finally, they broke away, and--in a jarring twist--Bonnie moved on to Laurel. Their hug was brief, but over Laurel’s shoulder, Bonnie whispered “thank you.” Finally, Bonnie stepped back, straightened, and met each of their eyes in turn. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “Both of you.” 

Frank grinned. “You too. ‘M a little drunk, though, so it might just be beer goggles. I’ll let you know in the morning.” 

Bonnie’s face blanched, then. “You’re...Laurel, you let him get _drunk?”_

Laurel giggled; she was somewhat past the point of reading the finer social cues, and anyway, what had Bonnie expected? _“Tipsy,”_ she said, holding a hand up to ward off any response Bonnie might have had. “And what do you mean let _him?_ Bonnie, it is the twenty-first century. Women can get drunk on airplanes too, now. ‘S expensive, but,” she shrugged, “I’m rich, and we had five hours to kill in the air.” 

Bonnie pinched the bridge of her nose; she looked physically pained to the point that even tipsy Laurel noticed. Laurel frowned. “What’s wrong?” 

Bonnie sighed heavily; forced her brow to un-crease, but couldn’t quite wipe the anger, the fear from her face. “Nothing,” she said. “Let’s get you two fed. Sober you up. It’s going to be a long night.”


	22. Chapter 22

“What do you mean?” Laurel asked. “What’s tonight?” 

Bonnie’s face shifted to a familiar shade of disdain, but it didn’t quite feel real. “I have some prep left to do, but it looks like I’ll be babysitting you two, first.” 

Frank snorted. “We been doin’ fine on our own for months, Bon.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Think we’ll be more than fine unchaperoned for one more night. Just drop us at my place, alright?” 

Bonnie’s expression hardened. “You’re sloshed, Frank,” she said. “Both of you, and I don’t want anyone doing something stupid, like going rogue.” Her glance at Laurel was pointed and piercing; she didn’t have to mention that other drunken night for Laurel to know exactly what she meant. She eyed her scuffed tennis shoes, chewed on an already-frayed thumbnail, and waited for the moment to pass. 

Finally, Bonnie took a step back and gestured toward the baggage claim belt. “Did you check anything?” she asked, and when they both shook their heads, she began walking toward the exit, looking back after a yard or two to make sure they would follow. 

Frank was surprisingly talkative in the car, needling Bonnie about the faint cigarette scent of her car’s upholstery, hinting lewdly at what exactly he’d miss most about vacation. Filling the silence. _Nervous,_ Laurel figured. _Nervous and drunk, but handling it._ She let herself relax an inch or two into her own seat. 

They stopped at a 24-hour diner off the freeway. Laurel wrinkled her nose a bit--the hints of hangover she was already feeling rebelled against the very notion of processed cheese and fry grease--but Frank practically drooled on the laminated menu as he ordered a grand slam breakfast platter. Laurel settled on a small bowl of chili. Bonnie ordered house coffee, black. 

“For them, too,” she said, gesturing to Frank and Laurel. “And keep them coming.” Frank didn’t quiet down any as they waited, and after gulping half of her first coffee down like a shot, Bonnie joined in. Laurel was content to listen. It was nice at first; Frank’s nervousness appeared to have faded, and all that was left was fondness--for her, for Bonnie, for the city itself. As her sobriety settled in, though, Laurel could not ignore the erratic tapping of Bonnie’s heel on the tile floor, her shaky fingers gripping her now-empty mug, her eyes darting even as she nodded on and smiled. 

Laurel felt her pulse pick up, and took Frank’s hand under the table. 

It was nearing midnight when they finished eating. Laurel was stone-sober, and Frank looked better than he had all day. Bonnie, though...she held the wheel tight as she drove, hands on ten and two, and her eyes never left the road. 

When Bonnie skipped their exit, then, Laurel almost wasn’t surprised. She felt dread--her own, Frank’s, Bonnie’s--engulf them all like a cold fog. 

By the time she felt like she could speak, Frank had beat her to it. From the low, tight timber of his voice, Laurel could tell he felt it, too. “Bon, where’re you--” 

“We’re getting it over with,” Bonnie said. “Tonight.” Her voice was hollow. The words sounded rehearsed, recorded, played back in low quality. It was the tremor beneath them that set Laurel’s teeth on edge. She saw Frank working his jaw, gripping his armrest...eyeing the door handle. She reached out, tried to touch him, but he flinched away; kept his focus solidly on Bonnie. 

“Nah,” he said. “No. Bonnie. It’s fuckin’...midnight. You said you had shit left to _do. Prep,_ for...No. Not tonight. _Bonnie._ Turn _around._ We’re not--” 

Bonnie caught his arm before it could reach the steering wheel; her manicured fingers gripped tight enough, Laurel was sure, to leave marks for the morning. “Don’t be stupid,” Bonnie said, pressing down harder on the gas. “We’ll crash.” 

When Laurel spoke, her voice was impossibly calm. _Autopilot; damage control._ She’d been there before. “Bonnie,” she said, “We’re all tired. I’m hungover, Frank must be, too, and you had, like, seven coffees; you’re hyped up. I know you want to...fix everything, but we can’t tonight. You know we can’t. You--” 

Bonnie turned momentarily to face her; her eyes were stony. “Annalise is waiting,” she said. “It’s time.” She turned to Frank, then. “Do you trust me?” 

Frank was almost yelling by then. “Right now? I dunno, Bon. I really don’t. This is...Jesus.” 

Bonnie was not cowed. “You should,” she said. “And this morning, you did. You got on that plane. Just...let me handle this, alright? My way.” 

Frank did not respond; just angled his body away from Bonnie and stared out the window. Laurel watched him closely; he still looked half ready to jump out and make a run for it, moving vehicle or no. 

She had no attention left to pay to anything outside the car; to anything beyond Frank and Bonnie and the taut tense line between them. When they slowed to a stop, then, and she glanced out the window, her heart dropped to her gut; they were there. Already. 

Bonnie turned back to face her, then. “Give me five minutes,” she said. "Get him under control, then bring him in.” 

*** 

Bonnie took her keys with her, but that didn’t deter Frank; as soon as Bonnie was out of sight, he opened his door, then looked back to Laurel expectantly. “C’mon,” he said. “She’s lost it. We’ll get a cab down the street, I dunno. Figure somethin’ out, but we’re not goin’ in there. Not tonight.” 

Laurel shook her head. Met his half-crazed eyes with a steadiness she did not feel. 

"Frank...no. She’ll tell Annalise we’re out here. If we leave, what’ll that say? We can’t. We have to...trust her.” 

Frank’s face was a mask of pain. Shock. Unrecognition that hit Laurel like a truck. “Did you know she was doin’ this?” 

Oh, she wanted to hit him; had to cross her arms to stop herself. Had to blink, too, because she felt tears coming. “Are we back to that? Really? You not trusting me?” She ran a hand over her face; when he turned to face her, she did not meet his eyes. “No, I didn’t know.” 

When she finally raised her gaze to his again, his eyes had softened. Little consolation to Laurel, though; the anger had been replaced by a naked fear she’d hoped never to see again. He let the door fall closed again. Sighed. “I know,” he said. “I’m...sorry. I just…” 

Laurel reached over the armrest, then, and took his hand; after a moment, he half-smiled, bitterly. “‘S a fuckin’ mess,” he said. 

Laurel nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “But...they’re waiting. We’ve gotta go. You know that.” 

Frank sighed. “Yeah, alright. Let’s...let’s go.” 

They headed in together. 

*** 

Bonnie found Annalise as she’d left her, half-slumped over her desk, tumbler of vodka in hand. Annalise looked only half-surprised to see her. “Thought you went home,” she said. 

Bonnie shifted her weight from foot to foot in the doorway for a moment. Could not quite bring herself to enter, to sit. After a moment, Annalise’s eyes returned to hers, questioning. “What?” she asked. “What do you need?” 

Bonnie straightened up, squared her shoulders. Met Annalise’s eyes. _Once more, unto the breach._ “There’s...someone here to see you,” she said. “Outside. Can I bring him in?” 

Annalise’s brow furrowed. She set her glass aside, pushed her chair back from her desk, but did not rise. “Who is it?” she asked. “And what the hell are they doing here at…” she glanced to the clock. “Twelve forty five in the morning?” 

It took everything Bonnie had not to look down, away, anywhere but into Annalise’s eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two figures through the window, making for the door. Not yet, she thought; kept thinking, over and over, but she pushed it down. Forced the necessary words from her throat into the heavy silence around them. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

She heard the front door open.


	23. Chapter 23

The house was stone silent when they entered. Laurel turned to meet Frank’s eyes; shrugged. Took his hand and headed in, through the dark entryway. Toward Annalise’s office. 

Bonnie must have been waiting for their footsteps; the door opened as soon as they approached. Her face was grim, but she managed a small smile before herding them inside and shutting the door behind them. _Trapped,_ Laurel couldn’t help but think. Still, she held Frank’s hand; held him in place beside her. Steeled herself enough for both of them. 

Annalise’s face was a mask of ill-concealed shock, mixed evenly with a disgust Laurel should really have prepared herself for. She let out a harsh bark of a laugh, as devoid of humor as a sound could be, and turned to Bonnie. “What is this?” she asked. 

Laurel felt Frank tense beside her, and looked to find him working his jaw. He did not meet her eyes; just kept his own on the curtains behind Annalise’s desk. She wondered how much of this he was even taking in; how present he really was. Half hoped he was gone, lost entirely inside his mind. Perhaps, she thought, that would get him--get _of them--through this relatively unscathed._

When Bonnie did not respond, Annalise carried on. Any hint of laughter was gone from her voice, and what remained was scathing; angry, now, and nakedly so. “How long?” she asked.” “How long have they been back?” 

“They got in today,” Bonnie said. Her voice trembled, but she did not hesitate. “I thought it was...time. To talk.” 

Annalise scoffed; took a long swig of her drink. “Oh, _you_ thought it was time. You thought you’d get us all together, have us _talk things over,_ and everything would be alright?” Another laugh, then, ragged and dark. Laurel thought she heard tears beneath it, but couldn’t be sure; not with Annalise. She dared not look to Frank; just squeezed his hand and shuffled minutely closer. 

Bonnie went on; it was as though anger was what she’d been waiting for, as though she hadn’t been willing to throw the first punch. “No,” she said. “I was hoping you’d hear us out. Hear _him_ out. After ten years...Annalise, he deserves that much.” 

Annalise’s eyes blazed hot enough to turn Laurel’s down, away. “He deserves _nothing,”_ she hissed. She looked to Frank as she spoke. “He gave that up when he put his hands around a college girl’s neck and squeezed the life out of her.” She stood, stepped out from behind her desk. “Out. All of you. Get _out.”_

Bonnie stepped back, but not in retreat. She came to stand at Frank’s other side. _Ready,_ Laurel thought, _in case he tries to run. To comply with Annalise’s orders one more time._ Frank didn’t move, though, and after a moment, Bonnie continued. “When we thought Rebecca did it, we gave her a trial. You...let the kids present cases. For or against her.” She took a deep breath. “Let me do that. Let me defend Frank.” 

At that, Frank burst. “No,” he said.” His voice was wet, somehow; thick and dark and hopeless. Laurel looked his way, finally, and found him undone. Tears ran down his cheeks unchecked; he looked ten, fifteen years younger, but ages older, too. “Bonnie...don’t. Stop.” He looked to Annalise. “ I…I didn’t know. I wouldn’t’ve come if…” He sighed. “I’m sorry.” 

He pulled away, then; pulled his hand from Laurel’s and turned to leave, moving almost too quickly for Laurel to register what was happening. She barely caught him before he could push the door open; stepped backward and blocked his path with her body. 

His eyes were those of a caged animal: wide, wild, darting erratically before settling, laser-like, on Laurel’s. She could see the struggle there not to barrel past her, but she did not flinch. Did not move. 

“I can’t,” he said, after a moment, and that voice...hell, she wanted to let him go, wanted to follow him out, follow him away; back to the coast, to limbo, wherever he wanted, because he was right, this was _wrong._ This was fucking awful. _But…_

She raised her hand to his shoulder and rested it there; not holding him there, just...steadying him. Grounding him, maybe. She didn’t say anything--how could she, there, then?--but her eyes, her hand, her posture must have said enough. She wouldn’t know, later, how long it took, but slowly, the wild light left his eyes, and when she took a step back into the room, he turned and faced it with her. 

She’d seen Annalise watching over Frank’s shoulder--had registered dimly that, words or no, they’d been center-stage, putting on a show--and when they stepped forward once more, hand in hand, she found the woman’s eyes squarely on hers. 

“And who are you supposed to be?”Suddenly, it was the first day of class again; Laurel was fixed in place once more by Annalise’s gaze, her condescending tone. “Moral support? Prison guard? Bailiff?” 

“Witness,” Bonnie said, before Laurel could respond. “I can have her wait outside, if...” 

Annalise looked almost predatory, then. “Oh, no,” she said, rounding her desk and reaching for the bottle on the table behind it. “She can stay.” 

When no one spoke, Annalise sighed, poured herself another drink, and glared at Bonnie. “Come on,” she said. “You sneak around, lie to me, catch me here, drunk, so you can play lawyer; go on! Do it! Present your case!” 

Bonnie gestured for Frank and Laurel to take the two free seats; once they had, she went to stand to the side, so all of them could see her face. It might have been the angle, but Laurel would swear that something shifted in Bonnie, then.. She’d managed all evening, put on a brave face and carried on, but now, for the first time, she wore a mantle of confidence, of assuredness in her right to be precisely where she was. Suddenly...she looked like Annalise. 

_’Playing lawyer’ indeed,_ Laurel thought. 

_This is happening._


	24. Chapter 24

“First things first,” Bonnie said, “what are the charges against him?” 

Annalise looked as incredulous as Laurel felt. “Charges?” she spat. “How’s first degree murder sound?” 

Bonnie nodded. Took a step closer, and a deep breath in. “Anything else?” 

Annalise’s eyes darkened. Not just anger there anymore, no; _pain._ A crudely-healed wound, lanced open again. Her voice was cutting, still, but it was the ache in it that made Laurel flinch. “What are you doing, Bonnie?” 

Bonnie looked ready to die, but whatever steel she’d injected into her veins that morning had not worn off yet. “There’s more,” she said. “If I’m to defend him properly, I need to know... _everything_ he’s being held accountable for.” 

“Don’t go there,” Annalise said. It sounded as much like a plea as a threat. 

“Annalise…” 

Rage must have overcome fear; an Annalise Laurel recognized returned. “Alright, you want charges?” She took a shaky breath. “Assault. Conspiracy...Manslaughter. Shall I keep going?” 

Laurel looked to Frank; to the hands clenched in his lap, the nails digging sharp into the meat of his palms, the furrowed brow that might have looked surly, had it not been for the desperate eyes beneath. The palpable guilt Laurel could only hope was as obvious to Annalise as it was to her. 

“No,” Bonnie said. Her voice was almost gentle. “That’s...thank you.” 

Another harsh half-laugh. “Oh, certainly. My pleasure. And how does your client plead?” 

“Guilty.” 

All eyes shot to Frank when he spoke. Bonnie’s were hard, accusing, angry; Laurel’s, pure worry. Annalise’s were hard to read. Angry, yes, but more than that. There was a deep curiosity there that unsettled Laurel. 

Annalise had not yet spoken to Frank that evening; not directly, anyway. When she did, then, her eyes did not meet his. Her voice was low. Dark. Deadly. “Let your lawyer do the talking,” she said. “Bonnie?” 

“He’ll be pleading guilty on the lesser charges,” Bonnie said, “but on the murder charge...I plan to present mitigating evidence. Evidence that intense psychological manipulation over the course of a decade led him to do what he did. That...while Frank did the deed, Sam Keating was the one truly responsible for the crime.” 

_“Bonnie--”_

Bonnie’s look killed Frank’s words in his throat. “Shut up,” she said, and looked to Annalise once more. “Will you hear the case?” 

Annalise’s face was stone, but after a long moment, she sighed. “Do what you want.” 

Bonnie turned, again, to Frank. From where she sat, Laurel could see a rapid-fire facial conversation between them. An agreement, perhaps; a last-minute request for just a little more trust, a little more time. At the end of it, Frank nodded once, and Bonnie began. 

“Frank,” she asked, “could you describe your first interaction with Sam Keating?” 

Frank shifted in his seat, glanced past Bonnie to Annalise, and cleared his throat. “It was, uh, ‘05, and I...tried to steal his car.” 

That got Laurel’s attention. When she looked his way, though, his attention did not waver. 

“He caught me with a pick jammed in the lock, but...he didn’t call the cops. Asked me all kinds of questions, instead--why I was doin’ it, stuff like that.” 

Bonnie cut in. “And how did it come to that?” 

“My dad had gotten hurt,” Frank said. “Work accident, but his job was under the table--no disability, no insurance. I quit school, looked for work, but,” he shrugged slightly. “No one hirin’. Group of guys I grew up with were still around, liftin’ TVs and shit, and cars, sometimes. So when they said I could get in on it...I was stupid.” 

Bonnie nodded. Nothing of this story was new to her; that much was clear. Laurel realized, then, that she’d never asked, beyond that night in the car; she’d taken his pat, canned answers--about his family, about school, about life before Annalise--more or less at face value. She managed to meet his eyes, then, and tried her best to convey an apology. 

“Now,” Bonnie went on, “when you explained this to Sam, how did he react?” 

“He was...sympathetic,” Frank said. “Said I was in a bad spot, that he could tell I didn’t mean any harm. That I seemed like a smart kid.” He let out a weak half-laugh. “Said his wife needed an assistant, and that I should come by in a few days. Said he’d put in a good word.” He looked up, met Annalise’s eyes for maybe half a second, then returned his gaze to his lap. “She didn’t even interview me, really; just talked to me for a few minutes, then said to be in at eight the next morning.” 

Laurel caught Bonnie’s furtive glance at Annalise before she pressed on. “And how was the job?” 

Another shrug. “Hard. Whole new world, you know? Some _Pretty Woman_ shit, but I learned, and...it got easier.” 

Bonnie nodded again. “And did you have much contact with Sam at that point?” 

Frank nodded. “Not a whole lot, but...he lived here, you know? And...he found me around, sometimes. Made conversation.” 

There it was; Laurel saw Bonnie’s eyes light up. “What did you two talk about?” 

“He’d, uh, ask me how it was going,” Frank said. “How I was...adjusting. How my dad was doing, the rest of my family, now that we had some cash comin’ in.” Frank paused, then, as though considering. “Always felt like he was waitin’ for me to thank him.” 

Bonnie’s furrowed brow looked practiced. “Had you not thanked him already?” 

“I had,” he said. “After the...car thing, and again when Annalise hired me. And I did when we talked, too, you know? He’d saved my ass; I owed him that much.” 

“Did you feel like you owed him more than that?” 

Frank looked almost angry again, then; adamant, at least. “No. It...that wasn’t it. Not...I worked for Annalise. Not Sam.” 

Bonnie looked pointedly unconvinced. “Do you think Sam would have agreed with you on that?” 

Frank did not respond right away; finally, he shrugged. “Dunno. Thought so, but…” 

Bonnie stepped closer, then; Laurel could see a sympathy in her eyes that she didn’t think was entirely put on. “And how was your relationship with Annalise at the time?” 

Frank looked to Annalise, then back to Bonnie, his face tight, pained. “Bon…” 

“Answer the question, Frank,” Annalise said. 

Frank nodded. Took a deep breath. “It was, uh...good. Mostly. She was hard on me--hard on everyone--but fair. Gave me shit sometimes, though, and I wasn’t...wasn’t used to that. Didn’t like it, so I…” 

Laurel knew what came next; knew why the tightness in his voice was ratcheting up by the second. She wanted to reach out to him, then, but knew she couldn’t. She crossed her arms over her chest and pretended not to sneak glances at Annalise. 

“I wanted out, sometimes,” Frank went on. “Thought...hell, the money was better stealin’ cars, and nobody told me what to do out there. I wasn’t somebody’s secretary.” He let out his breath in a huff. “Thought about quittin’, some days. Most days.” 

Bonnie crossed her own arms; her face was as tense as Frank’s, as Laurel’s own must have been--this was it. It was coming, and there was no going back, no stopping it. “Were you feeling that way when you accompanied Annalise to Ohio in the summer of 2006?” 

Frank trained his eyes on the desk leg in front of him when he responded. “Nah,” he said. “Not...not when we left. Things were goin’ well--hell, she brought me with her. Let me help, all that. When we got there, though, I got...she got on me about somethin’, and I got mad--” He stopped short, then, and chanced a look at Annalise. Shook his head, hard, fast. “‘M not sayin’ it was right,” he said. “‘M not. I shouldn’t’ve…” 

Bonnie cut in. “That’s enough. Frank, can you tell me what happened that first night in Ohio, after Annalise reprimanded you?” 

Frank’s head was in his hands by then, and Laurel almost didn’t think he’d respond. Almost thought he’d get up and try to leave again. Finally, though, he straightened up, glanced at Laurel, then settled his gaze firmly on Bonnie. “Woman came up to me at the bar. She was...hot, and I was drunk, and...I brought her up to my room. Afterwards, she...she brought out this suitcase full of cash. Said if I put a bug in Annalise’s room, it was mine. I thought...I figured it was sabotage. That she was with Mahoney, and wanted to know what Annalise knew. I didn’t think…” 

Laurel looked to Annalise again; the woman’s eyes were on her desk, and she clutched her empty tumbler hard enough to turn her knuckles white. Laurel could not see her eyes, but felt, with a wrenching certainty, that there were tears there. 

Frank was looking, too, by then, and trying to hold back his own tears. “I had no idea, but that...that doesn’t matter. It was on me. It was...my fuckin’ fault, what happened. I know that. I...I wanted to tell you, Annalise. That night, after...I came to the hospital to tell you, but Sam…” his voice broke. “Sam said it would be worse for you...to know that it wasn’t an accident. That it was me. He made me promise not to tell. Said...said I owed him.” 

Silence reigned, then. The only sounds were the clock ticking on the wall and Frank’s ragged breathing. Nothing to say, was there? Nothing that wouldn’t just make it all worse. Bonnie’s strong facade looked dangerously close to crumbling, and Annalise… 

_Jesus._

After what felt like hours, Bonnie steeled herself once more and went on. 

“Did he ever...mention that debt again, after that night?” 

Frank shook his head. “Not...not out loud, no. Not really. He’d still...check in, like before, but it wasn’t…” He looked up at Bonnie. “It wasn’t like he was...I didn’t have to do what he said. It was on me. I--” 

Bonnie held up a hand; waited for him to fall silent before continuing. “Frank, when did Sam call in the favor?” 

Frank’s gaze fell briefly; he sighed, and when he looked back up, his eyes were incredulous, close to begging. “You know,” he rasped. “Everybody...you all know.” 

“Say it,” Annalise said. Her voice was low-- _dangerous,_ Laurel knew, _but...something else, too._ “For once in your life, man up and say it.” 

All eyes shot to her, then, just as quickly, away. Her eyes were too bright to meet directly, with anger and tears and a pure luminous energy Laurel had only ever seen before in court. It took a moment, but Annalise’s voice then was not one to be countered. Frank spoke. 

“He called me from a payphone,” he said. “Said there was a girl up there, on that roof. Said he’d...made a mistake, and that...that he had no choice. That _I_ had no choice. Said...” His voice faltered; he brought a hand up, ran it over his mouth, his beard before returning it to his lap. “If I wanted everything to stay like it was, I’d…” He looked up; somehow, somehow, he met Annalise’s gaze. “He told me to off her. To...to kill her.” 

Annalise crossed her arms on the desk before her and leaned in. If anything, her eyes blazed hotter, angrier, but Frank did not look away. _In thrall,_ Laurel thought. _A moth to a flame._ She realized she couldn’t look away, either; had to watch them destroy each other. 

“Did she suffer?” Annalise asked. 

Frank flinched. Nodded. His face crumbled for the umpteenth time, and he did not try to stop it. Did not bother hiding. “She...her eyes were...I watched. I couldn’t...Jesus, I couldn’t look away, and she…” He looked shocked in that moment, as though this was his first time hearing the story. “She tried to...pull my hands away. Tried to stop me, but it was...was too late. I couldn’t...it was happenin’ already, she’d seen me. It was...I couldn’t…” The words came faster and faster as he went, half running into each other, broken up only by a few ragged, panicked breaths. “She...it was quick, but she…” He nodded. Choked a little on his own breath. “It was...bad. It was...so bad.” 

Laurel had had no illusions; had heard it all herself, the night she’d found him. Had seen the goddamn autopsy photos, for Christ’s sake, but… 

She stood; walked without thinking to the corner by the door. She felt eyes on her, all of their eyes, but she didn’t care, couldn’t, because _he watched her, Jesus, he watched her die and he didn’t stop, didn’t let go, and--_

“Laurel…” Bonnie was behind her; Laurel could feel her hand hovering just above her shoulder. She didn’t turn, though; just tried to tamp down the bile rising in her throat, tried to still her shaking shoulders. 

When Bonnie’s hand touched down, she flinched. “Don’t,” she murmured. “I just...I can’t. I need…” She took a shaky breath. “Please...don’t.” 

Bonnie sighed, but backed away. Left Laurel to hold herself together. 

She heard soft voices behind her-- “don’t,” “no,” “she doesn’t,” “Frank…”--before she felt another presence at her back. Larger. Stronger. _Able to kill, able to fucking destroy--_

“Go,” he murmured. “You don’t...you don’t need to be here. ‘S okay...Go.” 

She turned, then, though she wasn’t nearly ready. Met his eyes. Tried to see the killer there. Tried to feel his hands around _her_ throat, hard and unrelenting. Tried to hate him. 

Failed. 

Instead, she brushed past him, dried her eyes with her shirtsleeve, and reclaimed her seat. Shook herself; took a breath. _Push on,_ she thought. _Push through._

Frank sat too, but no one spoke. When Laurel looked up, she found Bonnie’s eyes on her. Her lips were drawn tight, brow furrowed, but Laurel thought she saw a grim satisfaction there, too. _Tears,_ Laurel thought. _Regret. The sympathy ploy. Quickest way to a jury’s heart._ Part of her hated Bonnie right then. 

Annalise broke the silence. “Is that all?” 

Her voice was cold, so cold, and Laurel knew; they were fucking screwed. Seemed Bonnie hadn’t gotten the memo; she shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest, and stepped forward once more. “I’d like to speak, too.” she said. “To...testify.” 

Annalise sighed. “What the hell do you have to say?” 

“I...feel I have insight,” Bonnie said. “Into the methods Sam used to...control people. To manipulate them.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “He did the same to me.” 

“He get you to kill someone, too?” 

“Annalise--” 

Another sigh. “Go on. Say what you need to say.” Annalise poured herself what had to be at least her third drink of the night. “Get it over with.” 

Bonnie’s nod was curt, but she hesitated. Her face grew pallid; corpselike. Laurel knew, in broad strokes, what was coming, and couldn’t quite hate her anymore. 

“He was my therapist,” Bonnie said, finally. “And...the first person I really told about...what happened. The whole thing, anyway.” She drew a shaky breath. “I’d taken a psychology course. I knew about transference, but…I didn’t _care._ I fell in love with him.” 

Laurel’s grip on her armrest tightened. 

“He knew,” Bonnie said. “Of course he knew, and he...encouraged it. When I started getting better, he…” she trailed off, clenched an idle fist, and closed her eyes. “What Frank said, about asking for thanks...he did the same with me. He got me this job, and after that, he was always...there. _Checking in._ At the time, I...I appreciated it. I did. And...I resented you, sometimes. He knew that, too; made sure I...saw you two. Together. I knew it was hopeless--I wasn’t _that_ stupid--but…” she shrugged. “Every time I gave up for real, he’d throw me some scrap, some _bit_ of attention, of...hope, and…” She gazed into her glass. “I was like a pet to him. A dog on a leash. He got off on it.” 

Laurel expected rage on Annalise’s face, but when she looked, she found sorrow instead, mingled with a softness Laurel hadn’t dared to hope for. 

Bonnie, for her part, was not even checking for reactions anymore. Whatever this was--calculated though it might have been, at the start--it was real, now. Raw and hard to listen to. 

“We never...slept together. There was the kiss--I told you about that--and...and hints, but that was it.” Bonnie smiled sickly, tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. “I was devoted, though. He...he got me, just as much as he got Frank, and there were times when, if he’d asked me to do what Frank did...” She looked up, looked to Annalise, then to Frank. “If he’d told me to do it, I...I can’t promise I wouldn’t have.” 

Laurel expected a reaction, but Annalise didn’t look surprised. Neither did Frank. Annalise swallowed what remained of her drink in one gulp. “Anything else?” She gestured to Laurel with her glass. “Her, too? You said she was a witness; what _insight_ can she provide?” 

_What, indeed?_

Bonnie looked to her feet, then, before returning her gaze to Annalise. “She’s been with Frank for the last two months,” she said. “If anyone can speak to his current character...it’s her.” 

Annalise laughed aloud at that; perhaps her first _real_ laugh of the evening, and Laurel could hardly blame her. “I trained you better than that, Bonnie,” Annalise said. “You go for family. Mothers. _Children._ ” She shook her head. “Never the mistress.” 

Bonnie squared her shoulders. Crossed her arms. Defensive; defiant. “And how do you propose I explain this to Frank’s mother?” When she got no response, she deflated a bit, but pressed on, voice soft but sure. “She knows him, Annalise. She’s the first one he told.” 

Laurel looked to Frank, then, and found his eyes on her. She considered forcing a smile, but settled for a steady gaze, a slight nod, which he returned. 

Annalise rolled her eyes. “Of course she is.” She glared at Laurel. “God help me...go on. Speak; be heard.” 

Laurel swallowed thickly. She’d known it was coming; this, or something like it. Witness; Bonnie’d said it, early on, but it hadn’t registered, not really. She’d do it, though; of course she would. It had to be two A.M. by then, and all she wanted was to curl up and die, but she’d do it, she could, she _would,_ and-- 

Bonnie came to stand beside her before she could begin. Her eyes on Laurel’s were almost apologetic, and when she spoke, her voice was gentle. “How did he tell you?” she asked. 

Laurel cleared her throat, sat up straight, and hoped her voice would not waver. “I was about to leave,” she said. “I knew there were...things he hadn’t told me. Secrets, and…” She shook her head. “I was done. He wanted us to be...real, a real couple, and...I couldn’t do that if he couldn’t be honest. So...I was walking out, and…” She half-laughed; swiped away a traitorous tear before it could fall. “And he just… _said_ it. Blurted it out. ‘I killed…’” A sob, then. “He just...told me. Just like that.” 

When Laurel was able to meet Bonnie’s eyes, she found her nodding. “And...how did you react to that?” 

“I didn’t believe him,” she said. “It...it didn’t make sense. I knew there were...bad things, but _that…”_ She looked to Frank, then. “I couldn’t...I waited for him to tell me it was crap, and when he didn’t…” 

She’d done so well, all evening; had held it together as Frank fucking _described_ it, but now...The tears kept falling, and no amount of blinking, no swipe at the eyes could save her now. 

Bonnie cut in. “Did he say anything else?” 

Laurel shook her head. “No. Not...not that night. I...left, before he could.” 

“How did he seem to you? Was he...angry?” 

Laurel shook her head. “No. He...he was...upset, and he wanted me to stay, but...not _mad.”_

Bonnie nodded; she looked pleased. “When did you two next discuss what happened?” 

Laurel wiped her eyes, and chanced another look at Frank. He was holding up, but the tension in his brow told her enough. She looked away before speaking. “A few days later. Here. In...in the basement. He apologized. Said...that he loved me. I told him I couldn’t be with him, and...that was it.” 

“Did he try to explain himself?” 

Laurel shook her head. 

“Did he tell you who asked him to kill Lila?” 

Another head-shake; another look at Frank, who was, by then, eyeing his own feet. “I...I assumed it was Annalise. All the stuff with Sam...He hadn’t told me any of that, so I figured…” She shrugged. Looked to Annalise. “I assumed. I shouldn’t have, but I did.” 

Bonnie stepped closer. “Why do you think he didn’t tell you the truth, then?” she asked. “About Sam?” 

Laurel shook her head. “I don’t...I don’t know. I really don’t.” 

“If he had wanted to...dodge responsibility, don’t you think he’d have mentioned Sam’s role?” 

“Objection,” Annalise said. “Speculation.” 

Bonnie stepped back, faced her. “Withdrawn.” She returned her attention to Laurel. 

“What made you go looking for Frank?” she asked. “After he left.” 

Laurel sighed. “I want to say I needed answers, but…” She shrugged. “I just wanted to see him. And that didn’t go away, so...I went after him.” 

Bonnie nodded; it might have been the late hour, the exhaustion, a desperate need for something, _anything_ positive, but Laurel thought she saw a hint of a smile her her eyes. “Where did you find him?” 

“Middle of nowhere,” Laurel said. “Kansas. Staying in some guy’s shed.” She huffed out a breath. “He was a mess.” 

“And how did he react to seeing you?” 

“He was...scared, I think. To see anyone from here.” 

“And...did you get the answers you were looking for?” 

Laurel nodded slowly. “I did. He...told me everything.” 

Bonnie’s gaze grew pointed, then; meaningful. _This is it,_ Laurel thought. _This is why I’m here._ “How did he seem?” Bonnie asked. “Emotionally. Scared? Defensive?” 

“Objection,” Annalise cut in. “Leading the--” 

“Guilty,” Laurel said. That was all she meant to say, but once the word was out, more came crowding in behind it; she couldn’t stop them from coming out. “He…he told me about the...baby, the car crash, all of it, and...he wouldn’t stop crying. _Sobbing._ I’d never seen him like that.” She looked Annalise in the eye. “I know...I know you won’t believe me, and...I get that. I do. But if you’d been there...if you’d seen him…” The tears picked up again; this time, they felt right. “When he was done, he...he said he couldn’t come back. That you’d never forgive him. That...you shouldn’t have to. He tried to send me back without him. It took… _months_ to get him to come with me.” She sighed. “He didn’t _care_ about himself anymore. He cared about you.” 

Silence again. Laurel dared not look to Frank, but felt his eyes like a brand. 

When it was clear Laurel was done, Bonnie nodded. Turned to face Annalise. “I have no further questions.” 

Annalise did not stand; just wiped her eyes and crossed her arms. “So that’s it, then?” she asked. “That’s your big play?” Her eyes bore into Bonnie; Laurel saw the smaller woman shrink, shrivel, fall back into her old role, her practiced stance. “That’s all you’ve got? Some tears, some pop psychology, this sniveling… _child,_ so wrapped around Frank’s finger that she followed him like a groupie all summer? That’s your defense?” She snorted, but it sounded like a sob. “Get out. Go--” 

_“No.” Bonnie’s voice shook as she stepped forward once more. “He’s...you _know_ him, Annalise. You...please. Please, just--” _

“Bonnie.” Frank was on his feet, then, hand on Bonnie’s shoulder. “Stop. It’s...over. Let’s go.” 

Bonnie turned to face him; shrugged his hand away. “Let me do this,” she hissed. “Let me--” 

Laurel stood, then, too, but she did not join the squabble. No, she approached the bench; stared Annalise down. She did not have a plan; no prepared words, no strategy for this. When she opened her mouth, though, her voice was full and strong. “He loves you,” she said. “He fucked up, we _all_ fucked up, but it’s _over._ It’s _done._ Just…” She let her shoulders drop. Let herself beg. “Let it _end.”_

Annalise raised her eyes to Laurel’s, then, drunk and sad and sickeningly certain. “I am,” she said. “Now go.”


	25. Chapter 25

The air outside was wet and unseasonably cold, but Bonnie did not rush to turn on the car, not even for the heat. No, they just sat, silent, Laurel in the back seat with Frank, Bonnie alone in the front. They’d spoken so much already, that night; there was nothing left to say. 

Finally, Bonnie drew a raspy breath. Cleared her throat. “Where can I take you?” 

“His place,” Laurel said. “Please.” 

Frank did not bother objecting. Laurel had worried, on some level, that he would insist on leaving immediately, on jumping right on the next plane back to the coast, or, hell, to someplace further. This, she decided, was worse; this apparent apathy. He had not met her eyes since they’d left the house. 

Bonnie drove obediently, and soon--too soon--they arrived at Frank’s building. Laurel knew what awaited them: a half-fixed disarray of Frank’s things, strewn about in her search, months before. Had things gone better, she knew he’d have found it funny. Now, though… 

Well, she doubted much would be funny tonight. 

There, too, they waited, silent. The radio kept playing, though Bonnie had cut the ignition. Some insipid pop song, upbeat, major chords. At some point, Laurel leaned up between the front seats and switched it off. Silence wasn’t great, but it was _better._

Frank was the first to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Booze is upstairs,” he said. “Bonnie, you wanna…” 

Bonnie shook her head lightly. “No, I...you two need to…” 

Laurel cut in. “Come,” she said. “Please.” 

She didn’t know why she said it, really. Sympathy, partly--that was the answer she’d give, if anyone asked. She had never seen Bonnie’s place, but Laurel’s mental picture was grim. It was more than that, though; on some level, she wasn’t ready. Couldn’t quite face the night alone with Frank, yet, while Lila’s face still lingered behind her eyes. _Just a little while longer,_ she told herself. _Drinks. Commiseration. A few more hours to forget._

So Bonnie followed them up. Laurel played hostess, poured them all drinks before taking her usual spot on the couch. She realized she was probably more comfortable there than Frank was, by then; she’d spent more time there than at her own apartment in the months before leaving, and he’d been gone so, so long. Hell, he hesitated near the door along with Bonnie for a long moment, like a guest waiting for an invitation. Finally, though, he sank down beside Laurel on the couch, and Bonnie took the armchair across from them. 

Still, no one spoke. The silence was heavy, pained, but Laurel, at least, had no intention of breaking it. She kept the drinks coming, and slowly, all of their postures softened. 

Four drinks in, Bonnie rose, unsteady on her feet, and went to the kitchen, where she rinsed her glass in the sink before making her way to the door. 

That roused Frank somewhat where he sat, slumped, beside Laurel. “Hey, where you goin’?” 

Bonnie barely paused. “Home,” she said. “I need t’ be alone. It’s been…” she sighed. “I need to sleep. I’ll call, if--” 

Laurel stood, then, and went to her; took her arm gently and tried to lead her back to her chair. “You’re drunk,” she said. “Stay. Just till...we have blankets. You can...you can stay.” 

Bonnie brushed her off. “No. I’m...thank you, but no.” 

Frank stood, too. “You ain’t drivin’,” he said. He did not reach for her, but concern was evident in his face. “And I’m sure as hell not drivin’ you. Stay. Please.” 

Bonnie looked like a child; her head-shake was petulant, frustrated, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “I’ll...take a _cab._ Just… _please._ I _need…”_

She crumbled, then, and, on some protective instinct she hadn’t known she had, Laurel pulled her into a hug. “Shh. Okay. Alright. We’ll call. We’ll get you a cab, okay? Shh…” 

Bonnie let loose an ugly sob. “‘M sorry,” she mumbled. She turned her face away from Laurel’s shoulder to face Frank, who was standing awkwardly beside them. “I’m so sorry. I thought...I really thought it would--” 

“Don’t,” Frank said. He put a hand on Bonnie’s back, and met Laurel’s eyes over her head. He was still wrecked--that was clear enough--but the alcohol had dulled the edges of the night, and for the moment, anyway, his concern was all with Bonnie. “You were good. It was...don’t. C’mon.” 

Laurel pulled away, then, gently, and went to make the call. When she looked back over, she found Bonnie leaning on Frank, sobbing openly, still apologizing as he led her to the couch. 

She calmed down some while they waited, but the tears didn’t stop, not really. “I really _thought…”_ She punched the armrest of the couch. _“Fuck._ I thought she’d…” 

_“Bonnie--”_

“Fuck her.” Bonnie half yelled it, repeating her punch and ushering in a fresh wave of tears. “I…I did _everything,_ and _you--”_ She pointed to Frank. “You’re… _sorry._ You are. And she… _knows_ that. She _saw_ that, but…” Another punch. “Nothing. Absolutely _nothing._ That… _bitch._ She...” 

Her words trailed off, then. Frank took her hand in his, and they sat like that, side by side, till Laurel’s phone rang. The cab. 

Bonnie stood abruptly at the sound, stumbling slightly, but righting herself quickly. Laurel, stood, too--grabbed her keys from the table, followed Bonnie to the door--but Bonnie shook her head. “‘M fine,” she said, checking her eyes in the mirror beside the door, blinking away tears and wiping up mascara smears. “...Thank you. For...everything. I’ll...I’ll call.” 

The creak and click of the closing door echoed loudly in the silent apartment. After a moment, Laurel returned to her seat beside Frank. 

His eyes were intense on hers, and suddenly, Laurel was back on the stand. Putting on a show. She met his gaze, steadily, steadily, and forced any trace of a furrow from her brow, but he saw it; she saw him see it. Saw his face fall as he moved closer, went to take her hand. 

Without thinking, she flinched. 

He fell back, then; returned his hands to his lap, where they clenched and unclenched, fruitlessly, over and over. His eyes left hers, and after a moment, he sighed. “Laurel…” 

“I’m okay,” she said, but the words fell out on a sob, and within seconds, she was crumbling. “I’m...I’m fine. I just…” She blinked away tears to find his eyes on hers once more. “Just...hearing it...described--what happened...on the roof--was…” She paused; felt bile rising in her throat as the image washed over her again, but swallowed it down, let it mingle with the tears in her stomach. “I...I knew, but…” 

Frank did move closer; just set his open hand on the cushion between them. Offering, but not demanding. 

She did not take it. 

“‘M sorry,” he said. His voice was rough, hoarse, but somehow soft, too. Gentle. She heard the tears beneath it, and the fight he was putting up to keep them down. “I didn’t...mean to say all that. Not in front of you. I didn’t--” 

“Don’t.” Laurel met his eyes again, and took a steadying breath. “I...I needed to. To hear it. If I’m going to…” Her breath came out shaky. “If I’m going to… _be_ with you, I need to know everything, and I need to...be _okay_ with that. Somehow. I…” 

She didn’t realize she was shaking till she felt his hand on her shoulder. The touch was gentle, almost experimental. She couldn’t help it; she leaned in. The solid warmth of his touch steadied her, and slowly, her muscles relaxed. She scooted closer, and when his arms came up around her, she didn’t fight it. He was warm, so warm, and she was cold and shaking, still, and-- 

“I’m not okay with it,” he said. His voice was low, barely audible, but she heard him. Felt the words where his chest met hers. “It’s...it’s not okay. I know that. And you…” He sighed. Pulled away, slightly, and met her eyes. “You shouldn’t have to...try and accept it.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I am...so fuckin’ sorry.” 

Laurel did not respond right away; just returned her head to his shoulder and kept worrying the material of his shirt between her fingers, a nervous tick, unconsciously calming. He did not rush her; his hand rubbed her back gently, back and forth, and his breath was warm on her neck. When she did speak, her voice was raspy, overused, but more or less calm. “I’m alright,” she said. “Really.” 

He watched her closely for a moment, but finally, he nodded. They separated, then, but stayed closer than before. He kept ahold of her hand. 

They didn’t speak for awhile; just sat together, waiting for the fog to lift. Frank got up at one point for water, and brought some back for her. “Hangover,” he said; she nodded. Drank. 

The silence between them was peaceful at first, but as night slid into day, Laurel saw Frank’s face darken again. His jaw grew tight, and one foot began jumping erratically, tapping against nothing. Finally, Laurel nudged it with her own, and spoke. 

“Hey.” 

His eyes met hers, bright and bleary, but he did not respond. 

She sighed. “Maybe...she’ll come around,” she said. She didn’t believe her words, felt a thousand tells in her face as she said them, but she had to say _something._ “We...sprang a lot on her tonight. Maybe she just...needs time. If...” 

Her voice petered out. She had nothing, and she knew he knew she knew it. 

He didn’t bother arguing; instead, he forced a tired half-smile, and stood. “Let’s go to bed,” he said. 

Laurel nodded, and let him pull her up beside him. 

Frank’s room, too, was as Laurel had left it, but neither commented as they made their drunken way through it. They did not change, did not bother to brush their teeth or freshen up after the day they’d had; just fell into the dusty, unmade bed together. 

By some miracle, they slept.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** This chapter has a pretty graphic description of miscarriage/child death.

Annalise waited till she saw tail lights receding to exhale; to pour herself her sixth drink of the night and bring the bottle with her upstairs, set it on her bedside table while she stripped away the trappings of the day. She did not cry. _Enough of that. Enough._

She’d redecorated her room after Sam’s death; there was none of him left there, and until that night, that had been enough. A bolthole. A sanctuary. But Bonnie had brought her those paint swatches, hadn’t she, and samples of the drapes, and Frank had mocked them both for taking so much care. “Gray and blue,” he’d said. “Goes with everything. There. Done.” 

Now, as she pulled a dark blue comforter up around her, settled herself against gray-cased pillows, she knew she’d lost this, too. There was no such thing as _alone._ As _safe._ Those were gone, along with everything else. 

She regretted drinking so much. _Vodka makes you cry. You know that, but you kept on. Stupid. Stupid._

She had a right, though, didn’t she? A _damn_ right, after...Jesus, after _that._ So she poured herself another, tucked herself in, and fucking drank, because what the _hell_ else was she supposed to do? 

Sleep wouldn’t come; she knew that. Their words ran through and through and through her head, sick and sly and too _loud,_ still, between her ears. No, she wouldn’t sleep. She’d _think,_ much as she might try not to. She’d think, and she’d remember. 

They were what she’d had; _all_ she’d had, really, for all those years. There’d been Sam, but what was he good for, really? A husband in name only, after a year or two. A lousy confidante. Perhaps that was why she’d taken them on; Frank, then Bonnie, after her year as an intern was over. Perhaps she’d known, deep down, what they would become to her. 

But they’d been Sam’s too, hadn’t they? Pawns on his chessboard, and she hadn’t seen it. For years, she’d missed it. She’d seen Bonnie’s little crush, sure, but seeing the tip hadn’t saved her from the iceberg. 

_Stupid._ Stupid. 

They’d been his, all along, the both of them. In his back pocket, doing his _damn_ bidding, along with hers. 

The tears were flowing freely, now, dripping down her chin into her glass. _Pathetic._

She had seen Bonnie fall apart before, more than a few times. Each time, pity and disgust warred in her mind: pity for the battered girl she’d never stopped seeing, and disgust for the woman that girl had become--hard, ungrateful, cruel, but always crawling back, crying at her boss’s feet when things got hard. She tried, always, not to think about the hand she’d played in warping her; usually, she succeeded. 

That night was different, though. The Bonnie she’d seen that night had cracked--harshly, sharply--but she had not crumbled. No, she’d kept on, spouting her nonsense even through tears, right up until Annalise threw her out on her ass. There was no pitying that Bonnie, and hell if that didn’t make it all worse. 

And Frank...hell. He’d started off soft, sure--softer than Bonnie, in some ways, and so damn eager to please--but he’d been hard for so long, she’d almost forgotten. She’d hardly had to think of him, most days, most _weeks;_ he was there, he did what she asked, and all was well. Dependable; no more, no less. To see him as she had that night--raw, exhausted, _weak--fuck. Beneath the fury, the hatred, the betrayal, she’d felt...protective._

She sat up, then; slammed her drink onto the bedside table before slipping back under the covers and turning her back to it. _No. None of that. He’s no boy, now. Tears can’t change shit. Sam’s dog, all along. Not yours._

She willed sleep; closed her eyes and focused on the familiar feeling of booze on the brain, but no. No, their faces--all of their goddamn faces--wouldn’t leave her. 

Laurel’s, even. _Frank’s girl._ She wanted to spit. _Stupid. Stupid._ She’d had promise; a spark of something in her that could have, would have grown. _Ruined her, she thought. Took her and fucked her and fucked it all up, and look where she is: with him, crying for him while she knows_ damn _well what he did, what he’d do again in a minute, if--_

_If I asked him._

She groaned. _Jesus._ He’d come back. Why in _hell_ had he come back? 

She wanted to think, still, that she wouldn’t have--asked him. Not for that. Never. After everything, though--after _Rebecca, God, and Catherine_ \--did she believe that? Did she really? She, with a mercenary on staff and a third-hand body count already? 

It hadn’t _been_ her, though; _Sam._ It had been Sam, and for what? A scot-free pass on a damn _fling?_ A cheap fuck like so many before, but this time, this time, he’d… 

_Jesus._

She felt herself retching; managed, barely, to make it to the toilet before letting loose a stream of thin vomit. Clear, mostly; had she eaten dinner? She could not recall. _Fuck it. Maybe now I’ll sober up._ She rinsed her mouth, first with water then with mouthwash, and made her way back to bed. 

The image wouldn’t leave her mind, though; a girl on a slab in the morgue. Sam’s girl. And a _baby._ Of course there’d been a baby. She found herself fingering the scar across her lower belly, then. She rarely thought of it anymore; barely noticed it while changing, even in front of a mirror or a lover. She’d worked--for all those years, she’d worked--to put it aside. Disregard it. Disengage. Now, though… 

A baby. Small, still, but alive. A child within a child, and he’d-- 

She was crying again; fat, hot, ugly tears, and hell, the bottle was almost empty anyway--she threw back the last few swallows without the aid of the glass. 

She had not felt like a mother, all those years before; not even with the boy, the corpse in her arms. He’d cooled so quickly. Not a he; an it. She shuddered. 

No, the closest she’d come to motherhood--to the responsibility of it, the love--was with _them._ Bonnie, Frank, and later, the others. _My grown, stupid children. Figures, that I’d raise killers._

She pictured Frank as he had been, ten years before. _When he helped them kill my child,_ her logical brain protested, but the vodka tamped it down. He’d been so _good,_ then, hadn’t he? Sam had brought him to her, sure, but fuck if he hadn’t tried for her. Fuck if he hadn’t smiled so big when she told him he’d done well, and fuck if she hadn’t been proud. 

There it was, then. The ugly truth. Even now, she loved them. _Both_ of them. 

_Stupid._ She rolled over and turned off the light.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long-ass delay; life's been a bit crazy. Hope this damn long chapter makes up for some of it :)

Laurel woke first the next morning furry-tongued and with a pounding headache. She felt Frank’s bulk beside her, and the heat of the sun through the window, and for a moment, she didn’t remember. 

When her eyes opened, though, and took in the familiar room, it fell upon her all at once. What had happened. What they’d tried. How they’d failed. 

She turned to face Frank, but his back was to her, limbs tangled in the covers he must have stolen in the night. He didn’t _look_ tense--looked quite deeply asleep, actually, and comfortable--but she didn’t dare touch him. 

_Not yet,_ she thought. _Bad enough that_ I _have to face it this early._

Instead, she just watched him, eyes unfocused. Willed herself to think. 

She’d considered this outcome; of course she had. Laurel was a planner, a worrier; denial was not in her playbook. She’d thought about this, and about how they’d get through it. Now, though--now that it was real and they were here and it was _over,_ well and truly--she felt panic rising. She took a deep breath through her nose, tried to let it out slowly. She’d trusted too much. Trusted Bonnie, Annalise, her sense of order in the universe. After everything--after all she’d been through in the last year--how had she not learned to expect the worst, always, _always?_ She’d let her failure plans stand half-formed for weeks, months, and now, they felt so fragile. 

They’d leave again, wouldn’t they? The event had popped up on her phone calendar every day for the last week: _8/9: last day to withdraw._ Two more days, now. She’d do it; she had to. Then...they’d go. Too late to register anywhere else for this year, but she’d make her way; get a job wherever, mooch off her dad for the rest. _Worth it. Of course._ They’d leave, and she’d start again someplace new, next year. Start fresh. 

_But…_

She let out a shaky sigh. There’d be talking, first, lots of talking, and her head hurt like a _bitch,_ and when he woke they’d both cry again, wouldn’t they, and she wasn’t ready. Not yet. 

She slipped from her own corner of the covers, made her way to the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, she retrieved her phone from the coffee table and set up camp at the kitchen island. 

The daily reminder popped up on her screen, and she tapped it closed without reading it. Instead, she opened Facebook; she’d barely been online in the months they’d been gone, and if anything could take her mind off of her own problems, it would be watching others’ petty dramas play out. 

The first item on her feed, though, was a picture of Wes, dressed business-casual and standing amongst what Laurel could only assume were the other clerks at the firm where he was spending his summer. She felt her face settling into a frown, her free hand rising habitually to her mouth, though her cuticles were long gone. She hadn’t thought of him; of _them._ Not _friends,_ exactly--not even now--but...something. They were bound together, all of them, and to just _leave…_

The coffee was done. Laurel stood, shaking her head, and set the phone decisively on the kitchen island before pouring mugs for herself and Frank and returning to his room. 

He appeared close to waking, now; his legs moved restlessly under the covers, and after a moment, Laurel saw his eyes flutter briefly open. 

He groaned. “Time’s it?” 

“About eleven,” Laurel said, rounding the bed and setting one mug on the table, within his reach. She met his eyes, and realized with an aching pang that he had not yet remembered. That she’d have to watch. She steeled herself as best she could...and waited. 

It only took a moment. He blinked, and she saw his eyes begin to focus--on hers, first, then on the room around them. His pupils grew, and a moment later, he was upright, running a hand hard through his hair and frowning deeply. 

She reached for his hand, free hand, then, and he let her take it, but it was like touching a corpse. He could not feel her, she knew. For all intents and purposes, he was far away. 

They just sat like that for a few minutes. There wasn’t much--wasn’t _anything--_ to say. Finally, he turned his hand in hers and held tight. Sighed. “Fuck.” 

She just nodded. Met his eyes steadily, though it hurt. The light there was out, and it wasn’t just the hangover. If the remembrance had hurt her--and it had, oh, it had--it must have been ten times worse for him. 

Finally, he extricated his hand, reached for the mug beside him, and took a long pull. Grimaced again at the taste--she’d made it strong, almost thick, a hangover brew she’d resorted to many a time in undergrad--but nodded in thanks. Within a minute or two, his mug was empty. 

Silence, then, heavy and dark. _Say something,_ Laurel thought. _Dammit, say something. You love him and he’s hurt and it’s all over now, but words, words you know. Words, you can do, and he needs them. You both do._ Something. _Shit._

No words came. Finally, she crawled back under the covers beside him. Set her head on his shoulder, and reclaimed his hand. “Fuck.” 

*** 

They sat like that for probably an hour, not speaking. Frank got up once to get them more coffee and some ibuprofen, but when he returned, they resumed their stance. 

It was nice, at first. Almost enough to lull Laurel, to calm her. As time passed, though, the hum of tension returned. Sitting, waiting, pretending...it wasn’t her way. Wasn’t his, either, really; she knew that. They solved problems. Fixed things. This… 

She sat up straight, then, and turned to face Frank. It took a moment for his eyes to clear, to focus on her face, but when they did, he raised his eyebrows in question. 

“So...what are we gonna do?” she asked. 

Frank looked away. Sighed. “Dunno.” 

Laurel waited for more, but nothing came. Frank closed his eyes, leaned back in bed. Shut her out. 

“Well, what?” Laurel fought to keep her voice calm, level. Fought to keep the frustration from her tone. “Will we...leave, again? Move? Are we--” 

_“Laurel.”_ Frank met her eyes, then, almost glaring. “Just...not right now, alright? Please, just...leave it alone. For...today. Please.” 

Laurel deflated. “Okay. I’m...sorry, but I just...” She raised her hands, let them drop back at her sides. “I can’t…” 

Frank sighed again. “I know. But...Jesus, I don’t have some...master plan for this, alright? I don’t know…” His voice broke a bit. “I don’t _know_ what the hell to do. And I’m...sorry for that. For...all of this, but…” 

Laurel reached out, then, and ran a hand over his cheek Forced his eyes onto hers. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m...I didn’t mean to...push. But…” 

“I know.” He leaned into her touch for a moment before pushing the covers away and moving to stand. “We’ll...we’ll figure somethin’ out. I need a shower. You wanna…?” 

Laurel shook her head. It hurt to think it, but she needed to be alone, if only for a few minutes. When the bathroom door shut behind Frank, she scooted over to his side of the bed, pulled the covers up over her body, and buried her face in his pillow. 

_Think,_ she told herself. _Think._

After a few minutes, though, she heard a phone ring. Not hers--wrong ringtone--and not the one Frank had been using, either. The sound was coming from the bedside table. _His old phone,_ she realized. With a glance toward the bathroom door, she opened the drawer and retrieved it. 

It was his mother. Laurel wouldn’t know why, later--not for the life of her--but she answered it. 

“Hello?” 

“...Laurel? Is that you?” 

“Yeah. I...Frank’s in the shower. I...thought this was my phone. Sorry. I--” 

She heard the other woman’s scoff. “It’s alright. Least _someone’s_ answering, now. I had to find out from that woman he works with that he got back into town. Boy doesn’t call, not for two months, then he gets back...nothin’. Jesus. How are you, dear?” 

Laurel had to laugh at that, a half-hysterical sound she tried to muffle. “I’m...alright. Sorry he didn’t...I should have made him call. We’re both fine. How are you?” 

“Better, knowin’ you were with him. All he told me was ‘ma, I’m gonna be gone for awhile.’ Didn’t matter what I asked; that’s all I got. I worry, you know, and he never talks to me. Were you...what...on vacation? Traveling?” 

“Yeah,” Laurel said. “I had the summer off, so we...took a road trip. Cross-country.” 

“Well that sounds nice. Don’t know why he couldn’t just say that. It’s his father in him, I guess; all ‘strong and silent,’ even when it don’t matter. You had a good time, though?” 

“Mhm. It was...good. Glad to be back, though. Should I...I can go get Frank, if you want, or--” 

“No, no. You just tell him I called. And that I’ll beat his ass if he doesn’t get it over here for lunch today. Everyone’s gonna be there, now they know he’s back. They’ve missed him; the little ones, especially. Will you tell him that?” 

“Yeah, I’ll...I’ll let him know.” 

“You, too, alright? You know you’re always welcome.” 

Laurel smiled at that; couldn’t help it. “I’ll...see if I can. I’ve missed you guys.” 

“We missed you too, hon. You take care, and seriously--talk him into it. Get him over here, will you?” 

“I’ll try. Talk to you later.” 

After hanging up the phone, Laurel sank back into bed. Frank’s family always caught her by surprise, somehow. She hadn’t known, growing up, that family could _be_ that way--brash, open, but so fiercely loving. Cold civility won most days in her own household, with healthy doses of passive-aggression blended in for flavor. They’d never been close. There was, Laurel supposed, a kind of love there--her mother loved her, she knew, and her father tried--but it felt shamefully obligatory on her end. She had never felt homesick, not for a minute, not even in undergrad. Fuck, not even on Murder Night. Oh, she’d thought of her father as they chopped up Sam’s body, but it had been with a grim sense of legacy, and she’d shoved it away. 

Laurel had had many advantages in life; things Frank could have only dreamed of. Family, though…that was his. Always had been. 

And now, he’d been disowned. Not by his family of birth, but by someone as important. Perhaps Laurel couldn’t understand that pain, not really. Perhaps... 

Laurel heard the shower shut off, and a moment later, Frank emerged, towel-wrapped and apparently oblivious. 

When he saw the phone in her hand, though, his brow furrowed. “Whatcha doin’?” 

She held the phone up. “Your mom called. Apparently Bonnie tipped her off, and now she wants us over for lunch.” 

Frank groaned. “Shit.” 

“You should go,” Laurel said. She stood and approached him, still holding the phone, offering it to him. “Call her, at least. She misses you.” 

Frank stepped back, toward the dresser, and began pulling on clothes seemingly at random. “Nah,” he said. “Not today, Laurel. I...Jesus, you gotta know what this headache is like. I can’t…” 

Laurel stepped closer into his space, then, and grasped his arm. “I know,” she said. “I get it. I do. But…” She sighed. “We can’t just sit around here all day, and...if it’s too soon to figure the rest out, this is...something.” 

A face-off, then, but it was brief; after a moment, he sighed, and Laurel swore she heard relief there. “Alright,” he said. “Alright, fine. I ain’t goin’ alone, though; if I gotta sit through twenty-questions with the family, so do you. Oh, and you better load up on coffee, ‘cause you know she’s not lettin’ us out of there for at least four hours.” 

Laurel smiled full-on, then. “‘Course.” 

*** 

It took them forty-five minutes, but they managed to reach a stage of marginal presentability that _might_ just fool the Delfinos. A long shower cleared Laurel’s head, and by the time she was done, she was… _excited._ She hadn’t particularly _missed_ people, those two months; Frank and the beach and the plans in her head were enough for her. She’d always been introverted, anyway. It hadn’t bothered her. Now, though, the prospect of a room full of friendly faces, people who didn’t know the shit they’d just been through, the shit they’d done...it called to her, and as the last of the travel grime sloughed off of her body, she thanked God for Frank’s mom. For the party that had almost certainly been thrown together in his-- _their_ \--honor. 

Outside, it was cruelly bright, and they squinted into it, heads pounding. Pain pills had only gotten them so far, and for Laurel, at least, the trees outside were still spinning a bit. Nonetheless, she drove; nothing in the world would make her trust Frank behind the wheel that morning. He did not protest; just cracked the window, leaned against the door, and closed his eyes as if to sleep. 

Just before they arrived, though, he sat up and looked Laurel’s way. “What’d you tell her, anyway? What’s our story?” 

Laurel smiled ruefully. “Cross-country road-trip,” she said. “Best lies are 98% true, you know.” 

Frank grinned. It almost met his eyes. 

Frank’s mother opened the door before they could knock, and pulled Frank into a hug tight enough to squeeze a choked noise out of him. “Frankie, you son of a bitch,” she said. “Two months, _two months_ without calling. Your own _mother._ Lord, who raised you?” She turned to Laurel, then, as Frank rubbed his sore ribs. “And you! Look, I know he’s handsome, but as someone else who fell for that: sometimes you just gotta smack sense into ‘em. We gotta look out for each other, you know? Her eyes were soft, then. “Make him call. Please.” Laurel nodded, smiled, and got her own crushing hug. 

Frank’s father came outside too, grinning broadly, first at Frank, then at Laurel. “Fuckin’ hell,” he said. “This one stuck around?” 

Frank clasped the older man’s shoulder and smirked. “And ma’s still with you,” he said. “It’s a damn miracle.” 

Inside, a veritable horde of Delfinos, a solid seventy percent of whom greeted them at full volume the moment the door opened. 

“Frankie!” 

“Bastard’s back! Where the hell you been?” 

“Who is _that?_ Hot damn, boy…” 

Frank chuckled at Laurel’s side, snuck an arm around her waist. “Hey,” he said. “Everybody. You remember Laurel?” Laurel waved, and for some incomprehensible reason, it earned her actually clapping, as well as at least one wolf whistle. She winced a bit--the decibel level of the room called her headache right back--but smiled through. Frank stayed by her side as they waded into the crowd, arm still around her, and relative by relative, they made their rounds. 

Many remembered Laurel from her earlier visits, but introductions took probably twenty minutes, all the same. Only when Frank’s mother called from the kitchen that lunch was ready did Frank and Laurel get another moment to themselves. 

“You alright?” she asked, voice low, barely audible below the constant hum of chatter. 

Frank nodded. “You?” 

She nodded, too. Took his hand for a moment. “I missed them,” she said. “Is that weird?” 

She didn’t care if it was; Frank’s smile in response was tired, but genuine. “Nah,” he said. “Charmers, all of us. C’mon, let’s eat.” 

The meal wasn’t as extravagant as usual; Laurel knew for sure, then, that this had been planned on the fly, upon Bonnie’s revelation of their return. God, _Bonnie._ Laurel felt a pang in her chest as she wondered what she was doing, right then; if she had anyone to distract her, to keep her out of the bottle and her bed. _Shit._

No time, though; no time to worry, because talk was constant and quick around bites of ziti and sips of midday wine. Laurel felt herself settling into the rhythm of it. Hell, for awhile, she almost forgot. 

Almost. 

About halfway through, Frank’s mom turned to Laurel, a question in her eyes. Laurel tensed, as did Frank beside her; an instinct, by then, she supposed. “So Laurel, are you still with Annalise, too, or was that just for the year?” 

Laurel took a swallow of wine before responding. “Uh, no,” she said. “She gets new interns every fall and for the summer, you know, without courses to teach, she doesn’t need so much help.” 

The older woman nodded, then turned her attention to Frank, quirking an eyebrow. “And what, she didn’t need you, either? Never known that to happen. Bitch doesn’t give you _weekends.”_

Shit. 

Frank smiled, though, an easy smile, almost natural. “Guess someone finally told her that was illegal,” he said. “Made her pay up, in bulk. Bonnie held down the fort. She owed me.” 

Frank’s mother clapped once, then, and nodded. “Bonnie. That’s her name.” She faced Laurel again, then. “You know, I used to think those two were an item?” 

_“Ma…”_

“I did! But when I said that--” she laughed. “When I said that, the one time she was here, she said…” More laughter, from Frank’s father, then, too, and a few others. “Said she was too old, too smart, and too blonde.” 

Laurel laughed along, and let out the breath she’d been holding. 

The rest of the meal passed without incident. When the group scattered for dessert, though, Frank’s mother stood and went to Frank’s side. “I need a smoke,” she said. “Why don’t you come outside with me, catch up?” 

Frank hesitated for a second; looked to Laurel with a note of fear in his eyes. His mother’s voice had sounded innocent enough, benign, but he’d heard something there, she knew. Her own heart rate picked up. 

There was nothing for it, though; the two of them walked away, and Laurel was left alone in the milling crowd. 

Someone came up beside her then, though; one of Frank’s sisters, a tall, dark-eyed woman of around 30. _Sylvia?_ Laurel thought, _or is that the younger one? This would be...Maria, then. Or--_

The woman took no time for pleasantries. “She’s worried about him,” she said. “Ma. Thinks he’s lyin’ to her. Is he?” 

Laurel must have looked flustered, because the woman laughed. Her smirk reminded Laurel of Frank; under different circumstances, she might have appreciated that. “Don’t worry,” the woman went on. “I won’t tell. You wanna tell me, though? I’m curious, now.” 

Laurel stiffened; looked to the back door, through which she could see Frank and his mother having what appeared to be a serious heart-to-heart. He didn’t look up; couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see this woman--Sylvia, she was pretty sure--interrogating what she thought was the weak link. The key to juicy secrets. 

_Well, fuck that._

“I don’t know what you mean,” Laurel said, eyes firmly on the other woman’s. She hoped her smile looked easy, clueless. “He’s...hung over, I think, but otherwise…” She shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you.” 

The woman’s face turned serious, then, and somewhat sympathetic. “Alright,” she said. “I know he wouldn’t want you to say, whatever it is. So. Good on ya, I guess.” She smiled. “You’re good for him.” 

Laurel smiled, too, then. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I am.” 

*** 

They weren’t alone together at all after that. Laurel caught his eyes again and again in the hopes of gleaning something, _anything_ about what had happened, but all she got was the same hint of melancholy he’d carried all day. He smiled, but at this point, she couldn’t even tell if he meant it. 

Finally, around seven and after their third round of bourbons neat, Frank stood and came to stand beside her. “Hate to disappoint, folks,” he said, “but we gotta head out. Was real good seeing you guys.” 

His mother stood, too, and approached them, arms open. Again, she hugged them each in turn. “Visit more,” she said, pecking Frank’s cheek. “And bring this one. Hell, bring some little ones, too; Sylvie’s are gettin’ too big to pick up.” 

Laurel let out an incredulous laugh; Frank just grinned and shook his head. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “And...thank you.” 

They ran the hug gauntlet one last time, then, before finally reaching the cool night air. Laurel found herself laughing again. She took Frank’s hand as they walked to the car. _In this moment,_ she thought, _we’re alright. Maybe that’s enough._

But… 

“What did your mom say?” she asked, once the doors were closed. “When she called you out there. Your sister...Sylvia, I think?--said she was worried. Did she…?” She left the question open-ended; no clarification was necessary. 

Frank shook his head. Looked down. “Nah,” he said. “She...she doesn’t know.” He sighed. “Guess I shoulda told her, but…” He looked up at her again. “I dunno. She was pretty fuckin’ psyched to see me. Didn’t seem right to fuck it up.” 

Laurel nodded. Rested her hand atop his on the console between them. 

They drove home in silence. In the apartment, Frank went directly to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses half-full of bourbon. 

“Frank…” 

He shook his head. Made a sad attempt at a smirk. “C’mon, he said. “Take the edge off.” 

Laurel frowned, sighed, but took the proffered glass. _Special circumstances. One more night._

They sat down beside each other on the couch. After a few minutes, Laurel kicked off her shoes, lay sideways across the couch, and set her feet into Frank’s lap. “Tired,” she said. 

Frank chuckled. Nodded. Ran the forefinger of his free hand over her soles, just lightly enough to tickle. 

“Hey...dammit…” She kicked lightly at his hand, but after a moment, he settled his hand on her ankle, rubbing gently. 

“Thank you,” he said, finally. His voice was thick by then, with booze and exhaustion and no small measure of pain, but the words were clear enough. Laurel raised her head to look at him, a question in her eyes. “For...puttin’ up with this shit. Gettin’ me back here. Even if…” He sighed. “Didn’t _work_ but...thank you. For bein’ here.” 

Laurel sat up, then, and scooted to sit beside Frank again, close as she could get. Brushed the stray hairs away, and smiled as best she could. “Shut up.” 

Their kiss was gentle. Sweet. _We’re okay,_ Laurel thought, again and again. Willed herself to believe. _We’re gonna be okay._

*** 

Laurel stared at her computer screen for probably an hour that night, cursor hovering over the button that would submit her withdrawal form. Watched as Saturday became Sunday and her countdown shifted for the second-to-last time. _One more day, now,_ she thought, rubbing sleep from her eyes. _Do it. Now. Just get it the hell over with. Today, tomorrow...it has to happen. Do it._

It was 1 AM when closed her laptop and crawled into bed beside Frank. _Tomorrow,_ she told herself. _Tomorrow._


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh...sorry for the long-ass delay between chapters. Again. I wish I could 100% promise I'd be quicker with the next one, but...we shall see. Enjoy, anyway!

The next morning, she woke alone, spare covers tucked awkwardly around her. She rolled over lazily to check the time: 10:30. From the kitchen, she could hear clattering dishes; could smell frying eggs and coffee just this side of overbrewed. She smiled. Breakfast was not her meal--never had been--but the effort settled something within her. _An improvement,_ she thought. _Getting there._

She found him leaning against the counter, coffee cup in one hand, staring at nothing. When he saw her, he grinned. “Mornin’.” 

She smiled back; poured herself a large mug of black coffee and came to lean beside him, a short shadow of his posture. “Hey.” She gestured to the omelets sizzling on the stove across from them. “Thanks.” 

He smirked. “Who says it’s for you?” 

She narrowed her eyes, still smiling. “You _bitch.”_

They stayed like that as the food cooked, close but not touching. Laurel wasn’t sure, but she thought--hoped, begged--that the silence was softer, laxer than that of the day before. Occasionally, he’d step forward and nudge their breakfast with a spatula, clean the edges, add a sprinkle of salt. Finally, he shoveled the overstuffed omelets onto two plates, handed one to her, and made for the living room. 

Laurel had to admit, the food was delicious. She nodded Frank’s way, smiling. “‘S good.” 

He feigned a frown. “You doubted me?” 

She shook her head; nudged his foot with hers and leaned back into the cushions. “‘Course not. I’ve never met a better house-husband.” 

He huffed out a laugh at that, knocking her foot right back. “I guess I’m supposed to take offense, but you know?” He shrugged. “I’m gettin’ used to it. Good hours. Great benefits. Working life’s overrated.” 

She laughed, of course, but the silence felt different after that. 

They finished their food, then, and drained the pot of coffee. When Laurel returned to the couch with her last mugful, she knew it was coming. For real, this time. She sighed. 

“So.” 

Frank’s eyes met hers, and his posture stiffened. Defensive, though she knew he’d deny it. Her brow furrowed slightly; she waited. 

After a moment, he settled. Sighed. “So.” 

Laurel took a deep breath before beginning; straightened up, and hoped she radiated a confidence she didn’t feel. “Tomorrow’s the last day to withdraw from fall classes,” she said. “And...I’m gonna do it.” 

Frank’s eyes widened slightly, eyebrows raised. “Shit. You…” He let out an anxious huff of breath, not a laugh, but something like one. “Laurel, you… _shit._ You’re really gonna…?” 

“What? Quit?” Laurel quirked an eyebrow, crossed her arms. “Yeah. I mean...I can’t stay there, not after...everything. Not with Annalise there. And you--I thought you’d want to...get away, go somewhere new.” 

Frank crossed his own arms, and lowered his gaze. “Shit.” 

“What?” She struggled to sound truly confused. Of course she knew _what;_ of course she’d thought it, too--what this meant, how much she’d lose. Of course it stung, but dammit, she’d made her choice; the last thing she needed was to watch him agonize 

She waited patiently, though, as a parade of familiar doubts traversed his face. After a moment, he stood and began pacing, shaking his head. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t want you to throw out a whole damn semester because of… _this.”_ He paused mid-stride, arms still crossed, eyes on the floor. “She’s only teachin’...what...three classes this term? You can avoid her. Just…” He met her eyes with one final, definitive shake of his head. “Don’t let me fuck this up for you, too. Please.” 

Laurel stood, then, and went to him; took his hand and shook her head. “Stop,” she said. “Okay? Stop. We talked about this back in Kansas, and...it’s not just you, okay? I...really can’t be back there. After the other night, but also after…” She met his eyes. _Sam. Rebecca. The Hapstalls._ “...All of it. It’s too much, and...one semester off won’t kill me. It won’t.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “I’ll be okay. _We’ll_ be okay.” 

After a moment, Frank gripped back. His eyes were almost childlike on hers, and much too close to tears. He must have thought so, too, because he lowered them; focused his eyes on their joined hands, blinked back the evidence. “‘M...sorry,” he said. 

She nodded. “‘S okay.” After a moment, she smirked. “Don’t suppose you can get Bonnie to write me a rec letter for Yale?” 

Frank’s half-hearted laugh felt to her like victory. “Dunno about that,” he said, “But I’m pretty damn good at her signature at this point, and I have some...very complimentary things to say.” 

Laurel laughed, too, stepping forward, into his space, still holding his hand. “I’m...not convinced you could keep it work-safe,” she said. “And something tells me the admissions office doesn’t want to hear about my boobs.” 

Frank scoffed. “There’s gotta be a _few_ straight men there,” he said. “Lesbians. _Soon-to-be_ lesbians. C’mon.” 

Laurel hit his arm lightly before leaning in to kiss him. 

When the broke away, she brushed past Frank and headed for his bedroom. 

“Where you goin’?” 

She turned back to him for a moment, still half walking. “I was...gonna go check on Wes., she said. “We left off on bad terms, before, and…” 

Frank smirked. “Shoulda left him with a pet-sitter,” he said. “They go cheap nowadays.” 

Laurel glared, but couldn’t stop the snort she let out. “I’ll keep it in mind. You...need anything, while I’m out?” 

Frank shrugged. It was nonchalant, but Laurel didn’t like the look behind his eyes. Futility, she thought. _He’s not used to feeling useless._ “Nah,” he said. “We got food; booze. We’re good.” 

She smiled; nodded. “Be back soon,” she said, and, for the first time since That Night, she left Frank alone. 

*** 

It was a Saturday; unless he’d changed drastically since she’d left, Laurel knew Wes would be home. She was right: true to form, he answered the door near immediately, bleary-eyed and still in sleep clothes. His face shifted as her presence registered, from neutrality to surprise to a vague, worn-out resentment. “Laurel.” 

She smiled tightly. She’d known it might be like this, but she’d thought that maybe, after _months_...well. “Hi.” 

After a beat, he backed into the apartment, allowing her to follow before shutting the door behind them. A moment of awkward glances, then he gestured for her to sit. She took the only chair; he sat, straight backed and clearly uncomfortable, on the bed across from her. 

“Did you find him?” he asked. His tone was dry, but Laurel picked up on a note of real curiosity there, too, and perhaps even a hint of an apology. 

She nodded. “He came back with me.” 

Wes nodded too, slowly. The apology grew clearer on his face; finally, he looked Laurel in the eye. “They caught the guy,” he said. “The one who…” He gestured vaguely. “Client of his. The trial starts soon.” 

Laurel forced a half-smile. “That’s...good. I mean, that they got him.” 

Wes nodded again. “Yeah.” He sighed. “I’m...sorry. For what I said, last time. I just…” 

Laurel shook her head. “I get it. It...made sense, at the time. If I hadn’t been…” She shrugged. “If I hadn’t been in love with him, I probably would have thought the same.” 

Wes squirmed a bit at that; he hid it well, but Laurel had to laugh. She’d missed him; she really had. And now… 

She sighed. Met his eyes once again. “Annalise is still pissed,” she said. “She...says she won’t take him back, and...I think she means it.” 

Wes looked a bit surprised at that. _He respects her for it,_ she couldn’t help but think. _For having limits, after all._ He played at sympathy, though; nodded again without breaking eye contact. “Sorry,” he said. 

Her smile in response was sad, she knew, but it didn’t matter, did it? “Yeah, it’s...kind of a mess right now. He’s not taking it well.” She took a deep breath. _Now. Spit it out._ “I’m...leaving Middleton. After...everything, I don’t think I can be here anymore. With Annalise. I’d end up in other classes with her, see her in the halls, and…” She shrugged. “I...can’t. And Frank needs out, and…” 

She looked up, then. Wes looked legitimately shocked. “You...you’re leaving? Like, permanently?” 

Laurel nodded again; looked away, focused on the scratches above his bed. Avoided his puppy-dog eyes. _Aptly nicknamed,_ she thought, _and if there’s anything I don’t need right now, it’s more fucking guilt._

Wes didn’t speak right away. When Laurel finally did look up, his eyes were on his lap, and he was shaking his head. She shook her own, once, quickly. _It’s settled. You have to. You_ have _to. You--_

“Don’t.” Wes’s voice was low, quiet. Pleading. “Please...don’t.” 

“Wes…” 

“I…” His voice broke a bit. “I _trust_ you. You’re...the only one I trust, now. Please.” His eyes shone; Laurel pled in her mind for the tears not to fall. 

She took a deep, steadying breath and pressed on. “You should leave, too,” she said. “This place...it’s not healthy, for any of us. You, especially. I get...the urge to stay. I do. After everything...getting out won’t _fix_ it. I get that. But I think…” She met his eyes. “I think it’ll help.” 

Wes stood, then, and walked to the window, arms crossed, back tense. “It won’t,” he said. “They tried that with me, after...my mom. It didn’t help. Things like this...you can’t run from them, Laurel. Don’t you know that by now?” 

Laurel winced; the words hit close to home. “I know,” she said, quietly. “But...staying hasn’t done me any favors either, and Frank--” 

Wes wheeled on her, then. There was anger in his eyes, but more than that, Laurel saw desperation, and a protectiveness that stung her, made it hurt more. “Frank is an adult. He made his choices. Bad ones, just like we all did.” His voice lowered, then; he sounded for a moment like a child. “Don’t fuck up your life for him, Laurel. Don’t.” 

Laurel stood, approached, and pulled Wes into a hug. He tensed at first, but after a moment, his arms came up around her, too. They stayed like that for a moment before Laurel pulled back. She kissed his cheek lightly; wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t go far. East coast, somewhere. And...I’ll visit, okay? And you’ll visit, and…” She smiled sadly. “It’ll be okay.” 

Wes smiled, too, but a familiar bitterness lurked beneath it, one that hadn’t really left, Laurel thought, since Murder Night. “No it won’t,” he said. “But...good luck.” 

She squeezed his hand, then turned and made for the door. 

*** 

She couldn’t bring herself to head back to Frank’s place straight away; without meaning to, she found herself driving to the county library. _Neutral. Calm. Quiet._ Inside, she settled in at a computer carrel, took a deep breath, and began to search. 

She started with the other schools she’d applied to, two years before; her second and third choices and, hell, even her safeties. _BU. Georgetown. Michigan. UPenn._ She scrolled through staff lists, specialties, accolades, and after awhile...she felt better. _Options. Options. A break, not a halt. You have options; you’ll be fine. You’ll--_

Halfway through her eighth or ninth ranking list, she looked out the window and saw that the sun was setting. She rubbed her eyes, closed her tabs, and headed for the door. 

She found Frank just where she’d left him; now, though, he was on the phone, and, Laurel was pleased to note, smiling. 

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, “You didn’t have to fuckin’... _tattle._ I was gonna--” He sighed. Waited for whoever was on the other line to finish speaking. “I _would’ve_ called. You know I would’ve.” He laughed a bit. “Yeah, alright. Alright. Laugh it up. Look, I gotta go. I--” More waiting; he met Laurel’s eyes, then, and rolled his own, still half-smiling. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll…” He frowned, suddenly affronted. “‘Course I will. Jesus. I’ll...I’ll call you soon, alright? Okay. Bye.” 

Laurel tilted her head as she set her things down, her question silent. 

“Bonnie,” he said. The exasperation in his tone was transparent; beneath it, Laurel heard comfort, tinged with just a bit of melancholy. “She wanted to...check in. See how we were holdin’ up.” 

Laurel went to sit beside him, not quite meeting his eyes. “What’d you say?” 

He sighed. “Told her. About...what you said, earlier. ‘Bout...” He gestured to the door, as though the hallway were their far-off destination. “Leaving.” He shrugged. “Had to; you know how she is when she thinks someone’s hidin’ something.” 

Laurel nodded, though her heart twisted a bit at the news. She pictured Bonnie’s face as it had been that night, the way her voice had trembled when she’d promised them she’d call. Pictured her sitting alone at her place, hearing what she must have seen coming: that soon enough, she’d be in this alone. 

Frank must have seen her thoughts on her face; his brows furrowed yet further, and he reached for her hand. “She’ll be alright,” he said. “She’s tough.” 

Laurel nodded again; didn’t call him on the clamminess of his palm in hers. 

*** 

Laurel was shocked awake around 2 A.M. by Frank’s phone, vibrating on the bedside table beside her. All traces of grogginess disappeared at the sight of the face on the screen. She looked to Frank, but he slept on, dead to the world. She only hesitated a moment before grabbing the phone and taking it with her into the bathroom. 

She didn’t dare flip on the light; the moon through the frosted-glass window was enough for her to see her own wide eyes in the mirror, the goosebumps on her arms. 

“What?” She hadn’t meant to spit the word, but the venom in her voice didn’t surprise her. 

It must not have surprised Annalise, either; her voice in response was smooth, almost resigned. “You’re not Frank,” she said. 

Laurel sighed; rubbed her forehead as she sat on the closed lid of the toilet. “He’s asleep,” she said. “Why are you…?” 

Annalise was silent for a moment. When she did reply, Laurel could swear she heard a softness in it. “Wake him up,” she said. “I need to talk to him.” 

Laurel tamped down the flutter of hope that rose in her chest at the words, snuffed the life from it before it could draw breath. “Why should I?” she whispered. “What could you possibly have to say, after…?” 

Annalise’s sigh then was tired, so tired. “I’m ready to deliver my verdict.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some description near the end that might be upsetting to people with self-harm issues. (None of the characters intentionally harm themselves, though.)

The line went dead before Laurel could respond, before she could ask for any fucking _clarification,_ and she was left listening to her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears. 

_Verdict._

They’d sure as hell gotten that, though, hadn’t they, that night, when she’d sent them away? What could _this_ mean, then, unless… 

Again, hope rose, unbidden, begging for attention. She saw a light in her eyes in the mirror, so she shut them tight. Crossed her arms; held herself in. Tried to slow the beating of her heart. 

_It doesn’t change anything. Whatever she wants, whatever she has to say...it’s over._ Done. _There’s no back-button here; forward. Forward. Lucky you caught it; lucky you answered, not him, because he…_

She sighed; felt tears pricking the backs of her eyelids, and rushed to brush them away. _Frank._ She pushed the door open, slowly, and re-entered his room. He slept on, still, moonlight casting shadows across his face. Soft. Peaceful. Dead to the goddamn world, and now… 

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Don’t wake him, don’t you_ dare put this on him now, get his hopes up. Don’t you-- 

“Frank.” Her voice cracked and wavered in the still of the night, deafening to her ears, but not quite loud enough to rouse him. She cleared her throat; tried again. “Frank. W...wake up.” She went to his side of the bed, crouched down till her face was level with his. Waited for his eyes to open. 

He groaned. “Time’s it?” He muttered. The covers rustled as he tried, instinctively, to roll over, away from the disturbance, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. Firm. 

Finally, and with another groan, he opened his eyes. Met hers. “What?” 

Oh, it hurt, and for a moment, Laurel considered recanting, claiming her very first sleepwalk and willing herself back to sleep. For a moment, she couldn’t bear it, the thought of doing this, but… 

“Annalise just called,” she said. “On...your phone, and I answered, and…” She brushed fresh tears from her eyes. “She wanted to talk to you, and when I said you were asleep, she…” 

Frank sat upright, then; his eyes were bright on hers. She saw fear, there, mingling with confusion, but beneath that, the same malignant hope she’d felt. “Just now?” He asked. “She...what the hell?” 

Laurel raised her eyebrows in a shrug. “I don’t...She just...she sounded… _drunk,_ maybe? And she said…” _Fuck._ “She said she’s ready to… ‘deliver her verdict.’” She shook her head. “I don’t… _Frank…”_

She reached out to stop him, but he up and was moving already, toward the dresser, pulling out the makings of a day-off outfit. “‘M goin’ over there,” he said. 

“Frank.” Her voice was soft, then; still tremulous, but firm. “Do you…she might just…” Another sigh, deep from her gut. She rose from her spot beside the bed and stood before him. Not too close--in no position to _stop_ him--but near enough to show him the doubt in her eyes. “Tonight?” 

His face fell a bit, and he lowered his eyes. He didn’t relinquish the T-shirt he’d chosen, though; just kept clenching his hands around it, over and over, wrinkling the fabric beyond repair. 

“I have to,” he said, finally. Met her eyes, again; let her see the desperation there. The fear. “You know I gotta go, Laurel. Please.” 

Laurel sighed; relief, really, though she’d deny it. She nodded. “Okay,” she said, and then, as though it needed saying: “I’m coming with you.” 

*** 

The call had come around midnight. Nate had just left--dinner, drinks, and some regrets for the morning--and Annalise was dressing for bed. The face on the screen was familiar, but the sight of it was a punch to her gut. She waited two, three, four beats before reaching for the phone. _Don’t,_ she told herself, but of course, _of course_ she did. 

Bonnie didn’t wait for her to speak first. “I’m coming over,” she said. “If you don’t want to see me, lock the door.” A shaky breath, then: “Ten minutes.” 

The line went dead. 

She considered doing it: going downstairs, locking the doors, pulling the blinds and shutting off the porch light. She had no interest in seeing Bonnie; not at fucking midnight on a Sunday. Not at _all._ Hell, she had meetings in the morning--candidates for the assistant position she’d advertised online. She had a life to live, and a goddamn law firm to run. 

She got as far as the door before pausing. Sighing. Heading for the kitchen instead, and starting a pot of coffee brewing. 

Sure enough, Bonnie’s arrived a few minutes later, headlights flashing through the curtains. And sure enough, she did not knock. 

Her face stiffened a bit when she saw Annalise, seated on the couch, mug of Irish coffee in hand; Annalise saw her swallow thickly, straighten her spine and set her face hard. 

_Control. Put yourself in charge, dammit._ “What the hell do you want?” 

Bonnie cleared her throat; all of a sudden, it was clear that she’d been crying. Her face was a shield--makeup done, dark circles blotted out beneath her eyes--but on second glance, it was obvious there, too. Cracks lined the foundation. A traitorous, _stupid_ part of Annalise’s mind softened at that; urged her to _go_ to her, _comfort_ her. 

_Jesus. You’re losing it._

Bonnie brushed her hair back from her face, then, and kept her hand there for a moment, massaging the bridge of her nose, before meeting Annalise’s eyes. “Frank and Laurel are leaving,” she said. “He called me a few hours ago. Laurel’s transferring out, and they’re moving. Soon.” 

Annalise waited for more--for words to fill the silence while she processed--but Bonnie, it seemed, was not feeling so merciful. Her eyes were steely--not enough to truly fool Annalise, but enough, surely, to let her know that she wasn’t fucking around. Wasn’t lying to her. A messenger once more; the grim soldier on the doorstep. Waiting. 

On some level, Annalise had known this was coming. Hell, this was what she’d asked for: his absence, now and forevermore. After what had happened, what he’d _done…_ This was what needed to happen. What she’d wanted. What she _still_ wanted. Hearing it, though, sent a shameful chill through her, bone-deep; set her heart beating faster. 

She took a swig of her lukewarm drink, stalling, then sighed. “And?” 

Bonnie sat across from her, too close; close enough to see through Annalise’s hard facade. Oh, Annalise had no illusions that she couldn’t, after all these years, and she hated her for it; hated _herself,_ for letting this person, these _people,_ get so goddamn close. A decade of slip-ups, of letting down her guard on so many late nights. 

Bonnie’s face softened; her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse, still, but gentler. “You know you can’t let that happen,” she said. 

Annalise forced a snort; an acerbic smirk. “You woke me up for this? To try and tell me how I feel?” She stood and made for the kitchen, not glancing back, willing surety into her stride. “Go home, Bonnie. Drown your sorrows. I’m going to bed.” 

“Annalise--” 

She wheeled, then, scowling. _“Go._ If you called them, told them to meet you here for another amateur-hour intervention, call them back. Tell them it’s cancelled.” 

She made it up the stairs before the tears began to fall. 

*** 

She waited for probably an hour, upstairs. Paced. Checked her email four times; checked the student directory for Laurel’s name, then checked again, ten minutes later. Paced some more, then tried and failed to sleep. 

She half expected Bonnie to be there, still, when went back down. _(For booze,_ she told herself.) The house was empty, though. Quiet. She was unused to it, after so many years of students milling through, on top of Frank and Bonnie. Always, _always,_ there’d been the sounds of flipping pages, barely muffled conversations, not-so-secret trysts in not-so-private places. Noon, midnight, whatever; hers had been the house that never slept, for over a decade. She tried to appreciate the quiet; tried to revel as she poured herself another drink. When she sat down on one end of a never-empty couch, though, all she felt was a hum of displaced dread. 

_Leaving._ Not just the office--the _city._ The state, too, most likely; there were other decent law schools in Pennsylvania, but Laurel was more than decent, and anyway, she doubted they’d want to stay close, after everything. Frank had his family to think of, but she knew, deep down, that that wasn’t what was keeping him in Philly. 

Gone, then. Again, and this time, for good. She’d expected more of a fight; had expected him to come crawling back at least once more, in a month, two, four. Had thought, in the darker corners of her mind, that if he hung on for six... 

_Fuck it._ She stood, then, and went to flip off the coffee maker. What was left had burned by then; these, _these_ were the things she needed assistants for. Small tasks; trivial upkeep. _Caring_ about things that she herself couldn’t be bothered to notice. She poured the dregs down the drain, tossed the grounds, and refilled her vodka glass with water. 

_Hydrate, then sleep. Meetings in the morning, court all day, then more damn meetings, more than likely, because what are the odds that any of the first three applicants will be worth shit? Then another silent night in this damn house, drinking shit coffee and too much vodka, and--_

She slammed the glass down hard, then, into the sink; almost threw it. The sound was satisfying--more satisfying than the drinks that had filled the now-shattered glass. Satisfying enough that it took her a moment to notice that she was bleeding; a thick red line across her palm, neat but, judging from the continuous output of blood, deep. 

She cursed under her breath, but made no move to stop the flow; just watched it drip into the sink, onto the shards of glass below, and began to cry. 

Frank, Laurel, and Bonnie, Bonnie most of all--she cursed the lot of them, under her breath, then louder, until she was all out of words, out of breath. Only then did she reach for a paper towel, dab up the last of the blood, and go off in search of her phone.


	30. Chapter 30

This time, when they arrived, there was no hesitation in the car; no pause to consider, to discuss, to agonize. A glance, nothing more, and they were out. Moving. On the doorstep. Ringing the bell. 

Frank tensed beside Laurel, but when she glanced his way, his eyes were bright. Not with tears, this time; he was excited. Ready. 

_Fuck._

Just as the bell’s resonance died, the door opened. Annalise stood before them, face made up, dressed for court, not sleep. Her eyes were stony as she surveyed them. Blank. For a moment, no one spoke. 

Frank’s dam broke first. “Annalise,” he said. Nothing more. They hadn’t spoken in the car, and it was as though the gravelly silt of sleep had crept back into his throat. The name was half-question; _Laurel glanced his way once more, but his eyes were fixed firmly on Annalise; shoulders tight, fingers fidgeting at his sides, but undeterred. Undeterrable._

Annalise did not respond; just took a long look at each of them--Laurel, first, then Frank--before turning and heading in. Letting them follow, or not. 

“There’s coffee in the pot,” she said, once they’d closed the door behind them. “I’ll be in my office.” 

Frank made to follow her immediately, but Laurel took him by the arm and led him to the kitchen instead. He looked at her questioningly--perhaps even a bit angrily--but she just shook her head. 

“Frank...” She trailed off, hoping her face would say enough, but he just waited, glancing back toward the hall with so much fucking hope in his eyes, and… “We don’t know for sure,” she said, finally. “Don’t…” _Don’t look so goddamn hopeful. Don’t trust her, don’t trust her, don’t--_

He sighed; pulled his arm free and looked away before speaking. “I know,” he said, voice low. “I know. But…” 

A face-off, then, but it was no contest. A beat, barely, before she nodded, because what was there to say? What in hell could she say to slow his heartbeat down, keep him from flying straight into the sun that had burned him just days before? No, there was no slowing him; no swaying him. No reason, here; just standing back and waiting for the fallout. She nodded, took his hand, and let him lead the way. 

Annalise was waiting, as promised; poised behind her desk, arms crossed before her. She barely shifted when they entered; just gestured with one hand to the seats before her. A bloodied bandage on her palm caught Laurel’s eye, but of course, Annalise saw her looking; returned her hand, palm-down, to her lap. 

“Sit,” she said, as though they weren’t already in the process. “No coffee?” 

Laurel looked to Frank again, but he was far away. Attentive; _a dog at heel._ Laurel felt a twinge of anger, but returned her own eyes to Annalise. Stared her down; begged internally for something, _anything,_ some _speck_ of emotion on that stone face to tell her what the _hell_ was going-- 

“Alright,” Annalise said, leaning back in her seat. She draped her arms across her chest. “Suit yourselves. There’s booze, too, if you’d pref--” 

“What are we doing here?” Laurel asked. She hadn’t meant to speak, and the moment she did, two pairs of eyes were on her. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat; straightened up in her seat. “Where’s Bonnie?” 

Annalise sighed; a familiar sigh, one reserved for those asking stupid questions. “Home, I presume. Asleep. You might have noticed it’s the middle of the night.” 

“Then why are we--” 

Frank reached out, then, and touched Laurel’s arm; met her eyes and shook his head. She furrowed her brow, but said nothing; returned her eyes to Annalise. 

Annalise, who’d been waiting, not-so-patiently, for quiet. She’d reclaimed her mug of what Laurel was pretty sure _wasn’t_ coffee from the desk before her, and took a long drag from it before speaking. “Bonnie,” she said, “was here earlier. She told me you two were planning on leaving again.” 

Her voice was casual, almost indifferent. Laurel knew better, though; she’d learned to read that face, and in that moment, she knew. Knew for sure that somehow, for _some_ ungodly reason, they were being reeled back in. Reclaimed. It was two thirty A.M., two days past their banishment, and now… 

Annalise either had not noticed Laurel’s noticing, or did not care to address it; she carried on, eyes still on Frank. “Is it true?” she asked. “You’re...what...taking to the road again? Heading back to Kansas?” She looked to Laurel. “And you--the shooting star, after all.” 

Fury, then, rising from Laurel’s gut into her throat. She hadn’t expected to feel this way; had tried so hard, so _damn_ hard not to _hope_ that she hadn’t considered the alternative: that it would be like this. Another power play, a coup de grace for the woman who always won. Released prey, recaptured. 

Laurel turned to that prey, then. Frank’s face was guarded; brows furrowed, eyes darting from Annalise to his own lap, then back. Hands clutched in his lap like a schoolboy, he floundered. Finally, he shook his head, as though clearing his thoughts. He went to speak--opened his mouth, raised a hand, but stopped short. Blinked. 

Oh, how Laurel wanted to cut in, and cut deep; how she wanted to stop this, end it once and for all, but when she opened her mouth--when she began to formulate the right words to fill it--she saw Frank’s face, two days before. Crushed. Wrecked. Saw the black circles still beneath his eyes; the holes in him she wasn’t entirely certain would ever fully fill. Saw the light returning to him already, here, in this awful room with this awful, _awful_ woman, and… 

She shut her mouth. Looked down and counted to ten before opening it again. 

“We don’t know where yet,” she said, calmly, coolly. “But...I’m going to transfer somewhere new. For next year. And Frank’s coming with me.” 

Annalise smiled thinly, then, with a look of… _what? Pity?_ “His turn to follow,” she said. “Fitting.” She turned to Frank. “And you’re alright with that? Letting her wear the pants?” A thoughtful look, then, and a smirk. “Suppose you’re used to it by now.” 

_Oh, fuck it._ “And what are we supposed to do?” Laurel half-spat. “Did you think I’d just...what...keep taking your classes, working _here,_ after…?” She gestured vaguely. “And Frank? What were your plans for him?” Her voice rose, then, in pitch and volume. “No, really--what did you think was going to happen to us?” 

Annalise sighed; leaned forward and settled her elbows on the desk before her. Looked at each of them in turn. “I thought,” she said, “that you’d have some damn patience. Give me some time, before flouncing off. Let the dust settle, and--” 

Laurel was half out of her seat then, and all but yelling. “No,” she said. _“No._ Don’t try to… _play_ us. Not now. Not after…” She heard a hitch in her own voice, but powered through it. “That? The other night? That wasn’t some _test._ You...” She let out a huff of breath, of frustration. Hysteria. “You meant that, Annalise. You meant it, and now--” 

_“Laurel--”_

She wheeled on Frank, then, half out of her chair. “No,” she said. “Not this time. If she wants you back…” She faced Annalise again. “If you want him back...Jesus Christ, just be straight with us. For once. Please.” 

Something shifted in Annalise’s gaze, then; her eyes softened, just a bit, and suddenly, she was ten years older. She looked...real. Affected. _Human._ She sighed. “What do you want?” she asked. Her voice was dark, still, and bitterly sarcastic, but raw, too, in a way it hadn’t been before. “You want to hear me apologize? Cry? Is that what you need?” 

The righteous rage fizzled in Laurel’s chest, then, and something sicker, sadder, seeped in to take its place; in a flash, she saw this woman--this cruel, hard woman--with a cold, dead child in her arms. Saw those eyes--tired, angry, still, but _soft_ \--and hated herself. 

Frank cut in; Laurel half jumped at the sound of his voice. Gruff, but gentle. Cautious. “Whatever you need to say,” he said. “Good, bad...just...say it. Please.” 

Annalise sat back, then; surveyed the two of them, the room, her empty mug, her own lap, before letting her eyes drift to the wall behind them. Laurel could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the house, a sprinkler starting up in the next yard over. Could hear the catch in Frank’s breath as he waited. 

It felt like an age before Annalise spoke; when she did, she fixed her eyes on Frank’s. “Sam brought you here,” she said. “Eleven years ago.” She huffed out a sad half-laugh. “I won’t say I’d _forgotten,_ but…” A long pause, then; Laurel saw Frank shifting in his seat, crossing and un-crossing his arms. “He _put_ you here. You and Bonnie. Made you my responsibility, and...I liked that. Liked having someone to boss around.” Her laugh was almost real that time, but there was something dark to it, too. “He knew I would. Knew what I liked. Always. And when things were good…” She trailed off, but only for a moment, before shaking her head. “I _thought_ things were good. With Sam. With you.” 

Annalise didn’t even seem to be speaking to _them_ anymore, in that moment; her eyes were dim, unfocused, looking through Frank, into the past. “Gave me that child, too. Took him a few tries, but he did. Then…well.” She nodded; cast her eyes down toward the mug on her desk. “So it was you two; you and Bonnie. He let me keep that, even after _you_ …” A deep sigh, then she looked up; met Frank’s eye. “He knew what he was doing. And he did it well. 

“It wasn’t _bad,_ then; not for a long while. Life...went on. Cases. Clients. _Work._ I had work, too. _That,_ he didn’t give me. That was mine. Until…” A huff of laughter, then; more of a sob, though her eyes remained dry. “‘Till he did it again. Took his toy back. Called in that _favor,_ and set all this--” she gestured around them, to the room, to Laurel, to the goddamn trophy, still standing on the shelf-- “in motion. Made this. _Caused_ it.” She took a deep breath. Looked up once more at Frank. _“He_ caused this. All of it. Sam...killed Lila, and you...you were his weapon of choice.” She sighed, then, shakily, and made a tragic attempt at a laugh. “If I tossed out every person the bastard used...I’d be alone.” 

Finally, tears. Laurel watched them carve rivulets into Annalise’s painted face, watched her features contort with the weight of what she’d said, and felt a lump rise in her own throat--sadness, relief. Catharsis. When she looked to Frank, she saw him shaking his head, just slightly. Saw him brush at his own eyes and look down, away. 

“I did it,” he said. “Much as he did. I was--” 

Annalise stood, then. Shook her head; stopped Frank’s words in their tracks. “He has taken enough,” she said. Her words were low--nowhere near loud--but they filled the room. “Sam Keating took my youth, my love, my reputation…” When Frank looked up, finally, she met his eye again. “He lied to me, for all those years, about my baby. He took...everything.” She sighed; steadied herself against her desk. “I’m not letting him take anything else.” 

Silence, then. Annalise did not move; just stared Frank down, eyes glittering. Defiant. Finished. Waiting. 

Frank laid his head in his hands, then, and for a moment, Laurel wondered if he’d broken completely; if it was time to take him home and put him back together again. When he straightened up, though, he looked...peaceful. His eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, and she could see hysteria creeping in around the corners, but he looked… _okay,_ somehow, in a way Laurel hadn’t seen him in months. 

“I want you here,” Annalise said. “You, Bonnie…” She stepped from behind her desk, toward Frank. “You’re what I’ve got left. Stupid. Careless. _Thoughtless._ But...I need you here.” 

Frank did not stand; just looked up at her, eyes darting across her features, as though he were waiting for the punchline; the final blow Laurel knew he thought he deserved. When it didn’t come, though--when a tired hint of a smile crept onto Annalise’s face--he took her hand in his; held it to his forehead, and cried. 

Laurel felt like an interloper; a voyeur. She didn’t move, though; if she stood, if her chair scraped on the floor, the moment might shatter. Anyway, she couldn’t look away. Whatever this was--whatever conversation was taking place in between the lines--Frank needed it, and the look on Annalise’s face told Laurel that she did, too. Laurel felt herself smiling slightly, through tears she hadn’t noticed falling. 

Annalise looked to her, then. Laurel tensed on instinct, but Annalise’s eyes remained kind; almost serene. “Thank you,” she said. She made no move to approach--had not yet freed her hand from Frank’s--but nodded, with what Laurel was pretty sure was actual respect in her eyes. Laurel nodded back; _message received._

It took a few minutes, but when Frank pulled himself together--when he’d dried his eyes, released his vice-grip on Annalise’s hand, and straightened up in his seat--he stood and approached Laurel. He looked almost embarrassed--as though this evening had revealed anything she hadn’t already known about him, deep down--but mostly, he looked proud. He reached for her hand, helped her up, and pulled her into a hug. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Fuck, Laurel, I…” 

Laurel shook her head; pulled back and met his eyes, and just smiled. 

Annalise approached them, then, half smirking. “Go see Bonnie,” she said. “Tell her she won her case.”


	31. Chapter 31

Laurel held her hand out for the keys as they headed for the car. Frank quirked an eyebrow, held them slightly out of her reach, but she just smirked and gestured to his raised hand. “You’re shaking,” she said. “Gimme.” 

Laurel was sure the breathless quality of her voice didn’t exactly inspire confidence in her own wherewithal, but he relented easily, tepping slightly ahead of her just to toss the keys over his shoulder. She caught them with a laugh before stepping double-time to meet his stride. “Jesus,” she muttered, but it may as well have been an endearment; he bumped his shoulder into hers as they walked, half catching her hand before rounding the car and getting in. 

Laurel hesitated for a moment, staring back up at the house. _Ground zero,_ she thought. _Where all the bullshit began._ Somehow, though--exhaustion, she’d say, or a contact endorphin high--she felt a rush of affection for the place. She’d missed it, she really had, and now… 

She smiled, opening the car door and sliding in beside Frank. _Now, we’ll stay. Now, we’ll start again._

They drove in silence. Occasionally, Laurel would sneak a glance at Frank to find him still grinning like a fool. Finally, about halfway to Bonnie’s, he caught her; smiled, and reached up to run a hand through her hair. 

“Stop it,” she mumbled, angling away and focusing on the road, but she made no move to hide her smile, and when she pulled his hand away, she did not let go; just held it in hers, on the armrest between them. Pretended not to notice the twitch of his fingers, the sweat still on his palm. 

Frank’s free hand was on the door handle before Laurel could put the car in park, but she held fast to the other; waited for him to meet her eyes before she spoke. 

“Frank...” 

He furrowed his brow. “What?” he said. For a moment, he looked lost again; scared. “What’s wrong?” 

Laurel shook her head. “Nothing. I just...this is good, you know, but…” 

Frank’s frown deepened. “You don’t wanna stay,” he said. His voice was steady, self-assured, but she could hear the tremor underneath; the terror. 

“No,” she cut in. “No, obviously, I...this is _good,_ really. I just...want to make sure we’re on the same page, about…” 

When Laurel didn’t go on right away, he extricated his hand; reached out again, this time to cup her face. He moved slowly, tentatively. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just...tell me.” 

She met his eyes again, then, and leaned into the touch. Smiled a bit, even, though the tension didn’t leave her features. 

She sighed.“If she...if _Annalise_ asks you to do something,” she said, “something like…” 

Frank shook his head. “She wouldn’t,” he said. “She--” __“If_ she does. If she asks you to...kill someone-- _anyone--”_ Laurel’s eyes were sharp, then, though tears brimmed behind them. “You won’t. You… _can’t._ Okay? You--” _

He leaned in, then, till his forehead touched hers. “I won’t,” he said. “Wouldn’t.” He shook his head lightly. _“Couldn’t._ Alright? ‘S not gonna happen. ‘S not.” 

She pulled back slightly, nodding; huffed out a laugh as though it were a joke, though the reddening of her face, the tension in her brow told a different story. “Okay,” she said. “I...I _know_ you don’t...I didn’t mean that you…That you were…” 

He brushed her hair back from her face, then, and leaned in to kiss her forehead. “It’s okay,” he said. “And...never. She says anything like that, pushes me...we’re out. Promise.” 

Laurel nodded again, and smiled; for real, this time. “Let’s go in,” she said. “Before Bonnie drinks herself unconscious.” 

*** 

After the third answerless knock, Frank sighed and pulled out his keyring. Laurel scoffed, pretended to be scandalized, but Frank just shrugged and unlocked the door. 

“Comin’ in,” he called, voice echoing through the narrow entryway. “Hope you’re decent. Laurel’s--” 

He stopped dead, then, as did Laurel behind him. On the floor before them, in the middle of the living room, was a suitcase. 

A thud from down the hall, then, and the clank of a glass against wood. A moment later, Bonnie appeared. 

Her face was flushed, as though scrubbed raw in too-warm water, but beneath that, she looked pale. Smudges of mascara remained around her eyes, which were themselves red and faintly swollen. When she saw them, though, she straightened up; pulled her robe tighter around her middle, squared her shoulders, and tried to sound sober in her “What are you doing here?” 

Laurel looked to Frank. His eyes were dark, inscrutable, darting from the suitcase to Bonnie and back; one hand combed through his beard, an unconscious tic. He didn’t speak; Laurel could practically hear the gears grinding in his mind, seeking something, anything to say. 

“The hell you doin’?” he asked, finally. His voice was even, steady, measured, though he must have known that no one in the room would buy it for a second. He gestured to the bag. “You goin’ somewhere?” 

Bonnie sighed deeply; allowed her arms to drop to her sides. _Defeat. Surrender._ “I tried,” she said. “I went over there, and she just…” She shrugged; forced a sardonic smile. “Sent me home. Again. She shook her head; let out what sounded dangerously close to a sob “It’s over. Whatever… _good_ thing we had going, there…” She shrugged. “It’s done. So...I’m leaving. If she wants to be alone, then who am I to stop her? Who am _I_ to--” 

Before Laurel could even think of speaking, Frank was moving; he put his hands on Bonnie’s shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Bonnie,” he said. _“Bonnie._ Listen. _Listen_ to me.” Laurel couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the laugh in his voice. “She called me,” he said. “It’s over. She...she’s lettin’ me come back, alright? Both of us.” He gestured back to Laurel, then. _“All_ of us.” He pulled Bonnie into a hug, then. “You did it, Bon. You won.” 

For a moment, nobody spoke; nobody moved. Finally, Bonnie let out something like a laugh; loud, bitter, sad, but so damn full of relief. “That… _bitch.”_ She sounded mad, but Laurel could hear the reality of it all soaking in, and when Frank released her and stepped back, a smile was budding behind her eyes. “She...I was _there,_ I...I told her, and she...sent me _home._ That… _bitch.”_

“That bitch,” Frank echoed, but when he turned back toward Laurel, gestured her toward them, his eyes were bright with affection: for her, for Bonnie, for Annalise. When Laurel approached, he slung one arm over her shoulders and the other over Bonnie’s. “‘S over, though,” he said. “‘S fuckin’ over. We did it.” 

Bonnie’s smile was soft, then, and after a moment, she wiped her eyes. “Congratulations,” she said. “Both of you. I’m…” She let out a deep sigh. _“God._ I--” 

Laurel stepped forward and, before she knew what she was doing, she was hugging Bonnie. “Thank you,” she murmured,” and, when she felt the other woman shaking, she just held on tighter. 

Finally, they all stepped back. Bonnie wiped her eyes again, and smiled. “Sit,” she said. “Sit. I...have a drink. Please.” 

Laurel glanced to the window and the violet sky beyond; morning arriving already, but none of them ready to sleep. Bonnie was drunk--deeply, obviously--and the responsible part of Laurel wanted to decline, but Frank was seated already, and Bonnie was fetching glasses, and… _fuck it._ Laurel sat, too, beside the man who, at long last, had been welcomed home. 

So once more, they drank together, late at night, on Bonnie’s couch; this time, though, they laughed. This time, they drifted closer, and when their voices rose, no one felt the need to flinch. Things weren’t perfect, no, but finally, _finally,_ nothing was _bad._

It must have been six in the morning when Laurel stood, shaky-legged and half asleep, pulling Frank up beside her. “We gotta go,” she said. “Gotta _sleep._ Jesus. It’s been…” She glanced around half-heartedly for a clock, but, finding none, settled her eyes on Bonnie’s worn face. “It’s been...good, but…” 

Bonnie stood, too. Smiled. “Go,” she said. “Rest.” She met Laurel’s eyes, then Frank’s, before looking away, toward the center of the room, where her suitcase still sat. “I...need to unpack.” 

*** 

The sun was clearly visible through the treetops when they stepped outside, the sky stained purple-pink, and when they cut across the courtyard grass, their shoes got soaked in dew. _Fresh,_ Laurel thought. _Wiped clean._

This time, she tossed Frank the keys, and when he caught them blind, midway through a full-body yawn, she clapped. He took a bow, then, and stumbled, almost falling over. 

Laurel’s laugh was loud in the silence of the early morning. “Shit,” she said, taking his arm as he righted himself. “You had, what, two drinks? Do we need a cab for the surprise lightweight?” 

He pulled her tight into his side, arm around her waist. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, go on. You’re the one wakin’ up the neighbors, though; remember that.” 

She sighed; let her head drop to his shoulder, though they had only a few more steps to walk. “Special occasion,” she murmured. “Leave me be.” 

In the car, Frank cranked the radio, over Laurel’s protests. “Keeps me awake,” he half-yelled. “I’m an upstanding vehicle operator, Laurel. Can never be too careful.” 

Laurel groaned, but by the time they reached his place, she was singing along with him, mumbling unabashed through the bits she didn’t know. 

The ride was short, and before Laurel knew it, they were back at Frank’s place. (Home, Laurel thought; the word felt good in her mind, then, so _damn_ good.) Together, they stumbled from the car, up the steps, and into the living room. Frank slumped immediately into his usual seat on the couch, but Laurel didn’t relinquish his hand. “Bed,” she said, tugging at his arm, though he kicked half-heartedly at her ankles and would not open his eyes. 

“What _ever,”_ he mumbled. “C’mere. Here’s bed. Who the fuck cares?” 

Laurel smiled at that, but before he could sense her approach, she had his ear in her free hand. “You’re a fucking _child,”_ she said, grinning as he yelped. “Come _on.”_

Finally, he stood, and followed her to his room. The bed was as they’d left it, unmade, and they fell easily into their usual spots. Frank might very well have been asleep by the time he curled up behind her, muscle memory drawing his arms around her waist, settling his head on her shoulder, but she didn’t care. He was there, and they were home, and finally, _finally--_

“Love you,” he murmured, half slurring, but making sure she heard. 

She rested her hand on his; shuffled herself more solidly into his space, and sighed. 

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Thanks for reading! You can find me at chemically-defective.tumblr.com, if you wanna talk!


End file.
